Poetry is something that happens in universities, in creative writing programs or in English departments.

We all have reasons for moving. I move to keep things whole.

I have been eating poetry.

We’re only here for a short while. And I think it’s such a lucky accident, having been born, that we’re almost obliged to pay attention.

And what does it matter when light enters the room where a child sleeps and the waking mother, opening her eyes, wishes more than anything to be unwakened by what she cannot name?

Nothing is the destiny of everyone, it is our commonness made dumb.

The burial of feelings has begun.