The act of making poetry is an act of hope.

My obsessions stay the same - historical memory and historical erasure. I am particularly interested in the Americas and how a history that is rooted in colonialism, the language and iconography of empire, disenfranchisement, the enslavement of peoples, and the way that people were sectioned off because of blood.

First, I emptied the closets of your clothes, threw out the bowl of fruit, bruised from your touch, left empty the jars you bought for preserves. The next morning, birds rustled the fruit trees, and later when I twisted a ripe fig loose from its stem, I found it half eaten, the other side already rotting, or-like another I plucked and split open-being taken from the inside: a swarm of insects hollowing it. I'm too late, again, another space emptied by loss. Tomorrow, the bowl I have yet to fill.

What is love?/ One name for it is knowledge.

A man's pursuit of knowledge is greater than his shortcomings, the limits of his vision.

The act of making poetry is an act of hope.

You can get there from here, though there's no going home. Everywhere you go will be somewhere you've never been. "Theories of Time and Space