Memory is a poet, not an historian.

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.

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.

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

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.