... the first step of the terrible journey toward feeling somebody should act, that ends in utter confusion and hopelessness, east of the sun and west of the moon.

Will occur as time grows more open about it.

The first year was like icing. Then the cake started to show through.

It never seems to occur to anyone that each reader is different, and that even those who might be said to resemble each other will each bring an individual set of experiences and references to their reading, and interpret and misinterpret it according to these.

I like poems you can tack all over with a hammer and there are no hollow places.

I lost my ridiculous accent without acquiring another

I write with experiences in mind, but I don't write about them, I write out of them.