I associate the garden with the whole experience of being alive, and so, there is nothing in the range of human experience that is separate from what the garden can signify in its eagerness and its insistence, and in its driving energy to live -- to grow, to bear fruit.

I like an ending that's both a door and a window.

The ear writes my poems, not the mind.

The poem in the head is always perfect. Resistance begins when you try to convert it into language.

Forward my mail to Mars.

I dance/for the joy of surviving, at the edge of the road.

When they shall paint our sockets gray And light us like a stinking fuse, Remember that we once could say, Yesterday we had a world to lose.