I write what I would like to read.

Traversing a slow page, to come upon a lode of the pure shining metal is to exult inwardly for greedy hours.

I've come to see conspiracy theories as the refuge of those who have lost their natural curiosity and ability to cope with change.

It's all so beautiful . . . the spring . . . and books and music and fires. . . . Why aren't they enough?

Poets are immersed in process, and I mean process not as an amorphous blur but as a discipline. The hard work of writing has taught me that in matters of the heart, such as writing, or faith, there is no right or wrong way to do it, but only the way of your life. Just paying attention will teach you what bears fruit and what doesn't. But it will be necessary to revise--to doodle, scratch out, erase, even make a mess of things--in order to make it come out right.

One may have been a fool, but there's no foolishness like being bitter.

Pay close attention to objects, events and natural phenomenon that would otherwise get chewed up in the daily grind.