Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice.
Poets are like baseball pitchers. Both have their moments. The intervals are the tough things.
Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.
We're either nothing or a God's regret.
Something we were withholding made us weak, until we found it was ourselves.
I could define poetry this way: it is that which is lost out of both prose and verse in translation.