A life is not sufficiently elevated for poetry, unless, of course, the life has been made into an art.

No voice comes from outer space, from the folds of dust and carpets of wind to tell us that this is the way it was meant to happen, that if only we knew how long the ruins would last we would never complain.

The number of people writing poems is vast, and their reasons for doing so are many, that much can be surmised from the stacks of submissions.

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?

It came to my house. It sat on my shoulders. Your shadow is yours. I told it so. I said it was yours. I have carried it with me too long. I give it back.

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.

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