The objects I chose were designed to hold something, but I didn't fill them up. They remained empty. They were little symbolic shrines to thirst.

Come away with me, he said, we will live on a desert island. I said, I am a desert island. It was not what he had in mind.

At the very least we want a witness. We can't stand the idea of our own voices falling silent finally, like a radio running down.

Here and there are worms, evidence of the fertility of the soil, caught by the sun, half dead; flexible and pink, like lips.

Publishers are in business to make money, and if your books do well they don't care if you are male, female, or an elephant.

I feel that the task of criticizing my poetry is best left to others (i.e. critics) and would much rather have it take place after I am dead. If at all.

Gardening is not a rational act. What matters is the immersion of the hands in the earth, that ancient ceremony of which the Pope kissingthe tarmac is merely a pallid vestigial remnant.