A traitor commits his crime but once. The rest/is retribution.
Each of us suffers with envy/for the forgiven.
Poetry holds the knowledge that we are alive and that we know we're going to die.
Without devotion any life becomes a stranger's story...told for the body to forget what it once loved.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass, say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless: I am living. I remember you.
Memory is a poet, not an historian.