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

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

A bruise, blue in the muscle, you impinge upon me. As bone hugs the ache home, so I'm vexed to love you, your body the shape of returns, your hair a torso of light, your heat I must have, your opening I'd eat, each moment of that soft-finned fruit, inverted fountain in which I don't see me.

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

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.