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

The poem in which the reader does not feel himself or herself a participant is a lecture, listened to from an uncomfortable chair, in a stuffy room, inside a building.

I held my breath as we do sometimes to stop time when something wonderful has touched us.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those who think they have the answers. Let me keep company always with those who say “Look!” and laugh in astonishment, and bow their heads. (from “Mysteries, Yes”)

People want poetry. They need poetry. They get it. They don't want fancy work.

Attention without feeling is only a report.

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.