And so we turn the page over. To think of starting. This is all there is.

Poetry comes to me out of thin air or out of my unconscious mind. It's sort of the way dreams come to us and the way that we get knowledge from them, through television, old movies, which I watch a lot of. Lines of dialogue suddenly seem to be part of a poem.

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

I don't want to read what is going to slide down easily; there has to be some crunch, a certain amount of resilience.

Part of the strength of Pollock and Rothko's art, in fact, is this doubt as to whether art may be there at all.

Things can harden meaningfully in the moment of indecision

To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.