The love of form is a love of endings.

From the beginning of time, in childhood, I thought that pain meant I was not loved. It meant I loved.

I had nothing and I was still changed. Like a costume, my numbness was taken away. Then hunger was added.

At the end of my suffering/there was a door.

I am attracted to ellipsis, to the unsaid, to suggestion, to eloquent, deliberate silence. The unsaid, for me, exerts great power: often I wish an entire poem could be made in this vocabulary. It is analogous to the unseen.

He takes her in his arms He wants to say I love you, nothing can hurt you But he thinks this is a lie, so he says in the end You're dead, nothing can hurt you which seems to him a more promising beginning, more true.

The love of form is a love of endings.