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

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

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.

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

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

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

Maybe being winged means being wounded by infinity.