The sum of the parts equals less than the whole. Or the howl. Or the how. Or the hole.

Today, from the bridge, the East River is sparkling. The money is swirling around the tall buildings like tides or like tithes, And I wonder, does anyone swim in this river, I wonder, does anyone pray?

I'm more interested in the writing than in the content per se (good writing can be about wallpaper and I'll devour it).

The sum of the parts equals less than the whole. Or the howl. Or the how. Or the hole.

It is bizarre that some people can't understand how a serious poet could work at a finance firm. Goethe was a bureaucrat. Eliot worked as a banker.

I do think most poets are in denial about what the real taboos in writing are--the real boundaries.

To think of the myriad ways that we live is to think of the ways that we die: Delinquent in our brains, in debt-- If we settle, then, our due account and walk through the forest, Will we finally be free?