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 feel that anything is possible in a poem.

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

Poetry is something that happens in universities, in creative writing programs or in English departments.

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.

The future is always beginning now.

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