Into the paradise of euphony, the good poet must introduce hell. Broken paradises are the only kind worth reading.

Into the paradise of euphony, the good poet must introduce hell. Broken paradises are the only kind worth reading.

What did you think, that joy / was some slight thing?

All my life I've lived with a future which constantly diminishes but never vanishes.

It's freeing, to think that there's always an aspect of us outside the grasp of speech, the common stuff of language.

Questions, inside the larger mystery of sorrow, which contains us and our daily transit, and is large enough indeed to contain the whole shifting tidal theater where I make small constructions, my metaphors, my defenses. Against which I play out theories, doubts, certainties bright as high tide in sunlight, which shift just as that brightness does, in fog or rain.

Poetry is an investigation, not an expression, of what you know.