In the evenings there's been thunder, a distant bumping and stumbling, like God on a sullen binge.

I don't think I solve problems in my poetry; I think I uncover the problems.

All I can hope for is a reconstruction: the way love feels is always only approximate.

A home filled with nothing but yourself. It's heavy, that lightness. It's crushing, that emptiness.

You're never going to kill storytelling, because it's built into the human plan. We come with it.

I always thought eating was a ridiculous activity anyway. I'd get out of it myself if I could, though you've got to do it to stay alive, they tell me.

I'm a fool, to confuse this with goodness. I am not good. I know too much to be good. I know myself. I know myself to be vengeful, greedy, secretive and sly.