I listen to the gunfire we cannot hear, and begin this journey with the light of knowing the root of my own furious love.

The woman hanging from the 13th floor window on the east side of Chicago is not alone...She is all the women of the apartment building who stand watching her, watching themselves.

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

Remember that you are all people and that all people are you.

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.

I believe that poets have to be inside their poems somewhere, or the poem won't work.

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.