But I tend to think of the expressive part of me as rather tedious - never curious or responsive, but blind and self-serving.

The reality of a poem is a very ghostly one. It suggests, it suggests, it suggests again.

I feel that anything is possible in a poem.

I haven’t met God and I haven’t been to heaven, so I’m skeptical.

To open the dictionary of the Beyond and discover what one suspected, that the only word in it is nothing.

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

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