There is a world which poets cannot seem to enter. It is the world everybody else lives in. And the only thing poets seem to have in common is their yearning to enter this world.

The words secret and sacred are siblings.

Yes, the mistrust of poetry has a long history, for a variety of reasons, but they all come down to sentiment and invention over fact and truth. Figurative language is suspicious.

I like to read because it kills me.

I hated childhood / I hate adulthood / And I love being alive.

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

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