Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence. Time and distance blur the edges; then suddenly the beloved has arrived, and it's noon with its merciless light, and every spot and pore and wrinkle and bristle stands clear.

Writing... is an act of faith: I believe it's also an act of hope, the hope that things can get better than they are.

Where do the words go when we have said them?

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.

These things you did were like prayers; you did them and you hoped they would save you. And for the most part they did. Or something did; you could tell by the fact that you were still alive.

The truth, it seems, is not just what you find when you open a door: it is itself a door, which the poet is always on the verge of going through.

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