I've been thinking about something for a long time, and I keep noticing that most human speech-if not all human speech-is made with the outgoing breath. This is the strange thing about presence and absence. When we breath in, our bodies are filled with nutrients and nourishment. Our blood is filled with oxygen, our skin gets flush; our bones get harder-they get compacted. Our muscles get toned and we feel very present when we're breathing in. The problem is, that when we're breathing in, we can't speak. So presence and silence have something to do with each other.

Brimming. That's what it is, I want to get to a place where my sentences enact brimming.

In writing poetry, all of one's attention is focused on some inner voice.

I don't mind suffering as long as it's really about something. I don't mind great luck, if it's about something. If it's the hollow stuff, then there's no gift, one way or the other.

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

While all bodies share the same fate, all voices do not.

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