I don't ask for the sights in front of me to change, only the depth of my seeing.

And that is just the point... how the world, moist and beautiful, calls to each of us to make a new and serious response. That's the big question, the one the world throws at you every morning. "Here you are, alive. Would you like to make a comment?

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.

Sometimes I need only to stand wherever I am to be blessed.

After a cruel childhood, one must reinvent oneself. Then reimagine the world.

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.

I know I can walk through the world, along the shore or under the trees, with my mind filled with things of little importance, in full self-attendance. A condition I can't really call being alive.