Later our dreams begin catching fire around the edges, they burn like paper, we wake with our hands full of ash.

I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous, or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular, but because it never forgot what it could do.

The writing of Kathleen McGookey shines more brightly than most fine things we feel pleasure to read. Celebrate it!

The hands are churches that worship the world.

When allowed to return to the class, your feelings of humility and lonesomeness will render you a much finer student and person.

I do think that all of us think in poems.

If someday, in a morning, you see you, in a mirror or the dent of a spoon, and wonder Where is my soul and Where has it gone, remember this: Catch the gaze of a woman on the metro, subway, tram. Look at a man. Seek and you will find you in the silvered space, a flash between souls.