Even this late it happens the coming of love, the coming of light. You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves, stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows, sending up warm bouquets of air. Even this late the bones of the body shine and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.

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

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

It's very hard to write humor.

I tend to like poems that engage me - that is to say, which do not bore me.

Sometimes he did not know if he slept or just thought about sleep.

Once you start describing nothingness, you end up with somethingness.