Every time you write a poem it’s apocalyptic. You’re revealing who you really are to yourself.

Maybe being winged means being wounded by infinity.

A bruise, blue in the muscle, you impinge upon me. As bone hugs the ache home, so I'm vexed to love you, your body the shape of returns, your hair a torso of light, your heat I must have, your opening I'd eat, each moment of that soft-finned fruit, inverted fountain in which I don't see me.

People who read poetry have heard about the burning bush, but when you write poetry, you sit inside the burning bush.

I am that last, that final thing, the body in a white sheet listening.

The problem with memory is that is changes whatever it touches. It is never that accurate. As a result, I end up modifying and revising my own experiences. It's myth making.

Memory is sweet. Even when it’s painful, memory is sweet.