In an age in which greed and lust stalk the land like some Biblical plague, it is easy to view sex as just one more thing to be had. It is the mythos of moderns.

I grow old, I grow old, the center will not fold. In youth I had hardening of the categories and looked for the father and the mother in every lover. Then I cracked. Then I fragmented. Then the old man in my soul found the god in herself, not in some Jungian fairy tale but in the flesh that fell from the bones and the words that came into my mouth when the look went out of their eyes.

Writing poetry is like always being in love. What masochism! What luxury!

History repeats herself.

ladies are just those of us who have been silenced.

if we begin on the men, there is no stopping. We must love them when we can.

Love, like alcoholism, comes to a point of no return.