A fact: one picks it up and reads it, and puts it down, and there is an end to it. But an idea! That one may pick up, and reflect upon, and oppose, and expand, and so pass a delightful afternoon altogether.

And now you'll be telling stories of my coming back and they won't be false, and they won't be true but they'll be real

I grew up in a sad, depressed place. I got out. Poetry saved my life.

I want to believe I am looking into the white fire of a great mystery.

On poetry: Everyone wants to know what it means. But nobody is asking, How does it feel?

Every day I see or hear something that more or less kills me with delight, that leaves me like a needle in the haystack of light.

It doesn't have to be the blue iris, it could be weeds in a vacant lot, or a few small stones; just pay attention, then patch a few words together and don't try to make them elaborate, this isn't a contest but the doorway into thanks, and a silence in which another voice may speak.