I want to write poems that are natural, luminous, deep, spare. I dream of an art so transparent that you can look through and see the world.
Poetry is the enemy of the poem.
The ear writes my poems, not the mind.
In a murderous time/the heart breaks and breaks/and lives by breaking.
Deftly they opened the brain of a child, and it was full of flying dreams.
Some poems present themselves as cliffs that need to be climbed. Others are so defensive that when you approach their enclosure you half expect to be met by a snarling dog at the gate. Still others want to smother you with their sticky charms.