The knowledge that it takes to write a poem gets burnt up in the writing of the poem.

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

Poetry is the language of extremity. Poetry is a transfer of potency. You feel something potent and then you transfer it onto the page.

A door jumps out from shadows, then jumps away. This is what I've come to find: the back door, unlatched. Tooled by insular wind, it slams and slams without meaning to and without meaning.

We suffer each other to have each other a while.

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.

Maybe being winged means being wounded by infinity.