Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

If you do not answer the noise and urgency of your gifts, they will turn on you. Or drag you down with their immense sadness at being abandoned.

There is no poetry where there are no mistakes.

I can hear the sizzle of newborn stars, and know anything of meaning, of the fierce magic emerging here. I am witness to flexible eternity, the evolving past, and I know we will live forever, as dust or breath in the face of stars, in the shifting pattern of winds.

If we cry more tears we will ruin the land with salt; instead let's praise that which would distract us with despair. Make a song for death, a song for yellow teeth and bad breath

I've always had a theory that some of us are born with nerve endings longer than our bodies

I was born with eyes that can never close.