In the end I would rather wonder than know

Something unpronounceable followed by a long silence points out my life is becoming a landscape.

Once I witnessed a windstorm so severe two 100-year-old trees were uprooted on the spot. The next day, walking among the wreckage, I found the friable nests of birds, completely intact and unharmed on the ground. That the featherweight survive the massive, that this reversal of fortune takes place among us — that is what haunts me. I don’t know what it means.

My happiness is marred only by my failure to attain it.

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

A poem is a neutrino - mainly nothing - it has no mass and can pass through the earth undetected.

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