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.

I'm accused of cleverness as if it were a sin. She is merely clever, they say.

ladies are just those of us who have been silenced.

All media can muddy the mind. Language leads to literature. It also leads to dogma.

Longing is all that lasts.

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

Opinion is the death of knowledge.