There's a certain point, when you're writing autobiographical stuff, where you don't want to misrepresent yourself. It would be dishonest.

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

Poetry is, first and last, language - the rest is filler.

These wrinkles are nothing These gray hairs are nothing, This stomach which sags with old food, these bruised and swollen ankles, my darkening brain, they are nothing. I am the same boy my mother used to kiss.

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

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

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