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

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.

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. There is no happiness like mine. I have been eating poetry.

Even this late it happens: the coming of love, the coming of light.

In a field I am the absence of field. This is always the case. Wherever I am I am what is missing.

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

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