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

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

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.

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

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?

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

The burial of feelings has begun.