Usually a life turned into a poem is misrepresented.

And yet, in a culture like ours, which is given to material comforts, and addicted to forms of entertainment that offer immediate gratification, it is surprising that so much poetry is written.

I am not concerned with truth, nor with conventional notions of what is beautiful.

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?

We are reading the story of our lives As though we were in it As though we had written it.

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

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.