I find you in these tears, few, useless and here at last. Don't come back.
I'm seventy-one now, so it's hard to imagine a dramatic change.
But I'm too old to be written about as a young poet.
Now I think poetry will save nothing from oblivion, but I keep writing about the ordinary because for me it's the home of the extraordinary, the only home.
The irony is, going to work every day became the subject of probably my best poetry.
For sure I once thought of myself as the poet who would save the ordinary from oblivion.