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

We suffer each other to have each other a while.

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

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.

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

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.

Maybe being winged means being wounded by infinity.