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

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

And I never believed that the multitude / of dreams and many words were vain.

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.

That's what I want, that kind of recklessness where the poem is even ahead of you. It's like riding a horse that's a little too wild for you, so there's this tension between what you can do and what the horse decides it's going to do.

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

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