He is exactly the poem I wanted to write.

What can we do about God, who makes and then breaks every god-forsaken, beautiful day?

When the blackberries hang swollen in the woods, in the brambles nobody owns, I spend all day among the high branches, reaching my ripped arms, thinking of nothing, cramming the black honey of summer into my mouth; all day my body accepts what it is. In the dark creeks that run by there is this thick paw of my life darting among the black bells, the leaves; there is this happy tongue.

Poetry isn't a profession, it's a way of life. It's an empty basket; you put your life into it and make something out of that.

Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.

it is a serious thing // just to be alive / on this fresh morning / in this broken world.

If I've done my work well, I vanish completely from the scene. I believe it is invasive of the work when you know too much about the writer.