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.

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.

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

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

We suffer each other to have each other a while.

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

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.