Poetry holds the knowledge that we are alive and that we know we're going to die.

Each of us suffers with envy/for the forgiven.

Bedeviled, human, your plight, in waking, is to choose from the words that even now sleep on your tongue, and to know that tangled among them and terribly new is the sentence that could change your life.

Without devotion any life becomes a stranger's story...told for the body to forget what it once loved.

A traitor commits his crime but once. The rest/is retribution.

I am living. I remember you.

Memory is a poet, not an historian.