If you have any idea for a poem, an exact grid of intent, you are on the wrong path, a dead-end alley, at the top of a cliff you haven't even climbed. This is a lesson that can only be learned by trial and error.

In the end I would rather wonder than know

We are all one question, and the best answer seems to be love—a connection between things.

I remember being so young I thought all artists were famous.

Metaphor is not, and never has been, a mere literary term. It is an event.

I remember I was a child, and when I grew up I was a poet. It all happened at sixty miles an hour and on days when the clock stopped and all of humanity fit into a little chapel, into a pinecone, a shot of ouzo, a snail's shell, a piece of soggy rye on the pavement.

People, the people we really love, where did they come from? What did we do to deserve them?