Our bodies look solid, but they arent. Were like a fountain. A fountain of water looks solid, but you can put your fingers right through it. Our bodies look like things, but theres no thingness to them.

Maybe being winged means being wounded by infinity.

We suffer each other to have each other a while.

The lyric self is the self; the narrative self is not.

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

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.