I’m only able to write poetry, for the most part, when I have a Muse, a woman who focuses the world for me.
For after all we make our faces as we go along.
Inside my mother's death / I lay and could not breathe.
Try making a poem as if it were a table, clear and solid, standing there outside you.
Poetry is a dangerous profession between conflict and resolution, between feeling and thought, between becoming and being, between the ultra-personal and the universal - and these balances are shifting all the time.
If I were to choose one single thing that that would restore Paris to the senses, it would be that strangely sweet, unhealthy smell of the Métro, so very unlike the dank cold or the stuffy heat of subways in New York.