I've been writing poems and stories since I was about 13.

All choices are illusions, or if they are not illusions their strength is illusory, for one choice must contend with the choices of all the other men and women deciding anything in that moment.

I knew that at least a few of the stars I saw were probably gone already, collapsed into nothing. I felt like I was looking at a lie. But I didn't mind. The world makes liars of us all.

In a lot of ways, the task at hand for any poem is to approach something that defies exactness or definition with a kind of exactness or precision.

The war came to me in my dreams and showed me its sole purpose: to go on, only to go on.

All pain is the same. Only the details are different.

The world makes liars of us all.