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.

I am living. I remember you.

Every poem holds the unspeakable inside it. The unsayable... The thing that you can't really say because it's too complicated. It's too complex for us. Every poem has that silence deep in the center of it.

Memory is a poet, not an historian.

Poetry is telling something to someone.

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.