We love disasters that have nothing to do with us

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

We love disasters that have nothing to do with us

One ambition of poetry, certainly, is to create a reverberant silence in its wake, one that means more or differently than the silence that preceded the poem.

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

Because the golden egg gleamed in my basket once, though my childhood became an immense sheet of darkening water I was Noah, and I was his ark, and there were two of every animal inside me

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