I'm surrounded by men, and the muse is complaining that I have neglected her.

Poetry has roots, but they are sometimes cut off and still poetry is written.

I look at my young students, and I no longer have the sense that, oh, I'm the authority and they have to meet a certain standard. It's like, oh, look at these young ones. They've got such a hard road in front of them. I don't envy them having life ahead of them.

I guess my writing through time has focused on a number of dimensions that reflect separately on the meaning and social place of the female body.

New formalism is writing with language as flow, like the flow from a dam, running through a desert that has had no rain for decades.

In short, for me - I'm kind of projecting onto you - distraction has become a modus vivendi, a way of life. Rather than complaining, I am recognizing that I couldn't do what I wanted to do because I'm distracted.

The city and nature, the built stone and the found stone, concrete and slate, poetry addresses them all democratically.