... the attempt to render visual intricacy makes words feel unwieldy, like sacks of meaning that must be lugged into place, dragged here and there, then still don't fell accurate.

And then we ease him out of that worn-out body with a kiss, and he's gone like a whisper, the easiest breath.

There are those fortunate hours when the world consents to be made into a poem.

Desire can make anything into a god.

Love, I think, is a gateway to the world, not an escape from it.

We long to connect; we fear that if we do, our freedom and individuality will disappear.

We love disasters that have nothing to do with us