Now it’s high watermark and floodtide in the heart and time to go. The sea-nymphs in the spray will be the chorus now. What’s left to say? Suspect too much sweet-talk but never close your mind. It was a fortunate wind that blew me here. I leave half-ready to believe that a crippled trust might walk and the half-true rhyme is love.

Even if the last move did not succeed, the inner command says move again.

Poetry is always slightly mysterious, and you wonder what is your relationship to it.

Hope is not optimism, which expects things to turn out well, but something rooted in the conviction that there is good worth working for.

When I was teaching, I gave a lot of my mind and anxiety to it. There was always something clenched and anxious in me until the classes were over.

Strange, it is a huge nothing that we fear.

If self is a location, so is love.