In the end I would rather wonder than know

in the beginning William Shakespeare was a baby, and knew absolutely nothing. He couldn't even speak.

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.

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.

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

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