I write very rarely. Only, in fact, when the sheet of paper suffers an existential crisis and threatens, if I don't surrender to it, to bury me alive under its whiteness.

What I try to do is to keep emotion on a tight leash; otherwise, it can never be transubstantiated into poetry.

Life's essential length is only a few pages long, as succinct as a line of verse and as brief as the title of a poem.

If anything needs love it is reality, for it is reality that lacks it the most - I doubt that it was ever loved.

I don't aspire, but I would be very happy if one of my poems suddenly offered someone a shady rest stop, a breather in our interminable march under the murderous, scorching heat of the superfluous.

You are walking in a desert.You hear a bird singing.As absurd as it may seem for a bird to be pending in the desert,you are obligated to make it a tree.That's poem

Love grows by not giving to us. And if our passion for poetry lives on and persists, it is because poetry offers us only its bits of lint.