And I never believed that the multitude / of dreams and many words were vain.
Maybe being winged means being wounded by infinity.
Memory is sweet. Even when it’s painful, memory is sweet.
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.
I am that last, that final thing, the body in a white sheet listening.
People who read poetry have heard about the burning bush, but when you write poetry, you sit inside the burning bush.