I am convinced that the first lyric poem was written at night, and that the moon was witness to the event and that the event was witness to the moon. For me, the moon has always been the very embodiment of lyric poetry.

In the end I would rather wonder than know

In our marginal existence, what else is there but this voice within us, this great weirdness we are always leaning forward to listen to?

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

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

Poetry is sentimental to begin with. To write a sentimental poem is an act of redundancy.

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