I look up at the ceiling, tracing the foliage of the wreath. Today it makes me think of a hat, the large-brimmed hats women used to wear at some period during the old days: hats like enormous halos, festooned with fruit and flowers, and the feathers of exotic birds; hats like an idea of paradise, floating just above the head, a thought solidified.

Write down the thoughts and even more, write down a specific line. If you don't, it'll fly away forever.

About no subject are poets tempted to lie so much as about their own lives.

I have periods now, like normal girls; I too am among the knowing, I too can sit out volleyball games and go to the nurse's for aspirin and waddle along the halls with a pad like a flattened rabbit tail wadded between my legs, sopping with liver-colored blood.

I doubt that Canada will be seen forever on the international stage as Mr/s Boring Niceperson, as has been the habit.

The best way of keeping a secret is to pretend there isn't one.

I'm a person of whim, and easily distracted. I don't like multitasking. When I'm doing one thing, I like to do just that thing.