And the words we find are always insufficient, like love, though they are often lovely and all we have.

And the words we find are always insufficient, like love, though they are often lovely and all we have.

Isn't there a curious elegance in how one moment passes into another?

I’ll always deny that I kissed her. I was just whispering into her mouth.

The world is always somewhat vicious. I take that as a given, but at various times in various circumstances that fact will be no more than a shadow or an echo behind some poem. Other times it will be more manifest. I try to write myself into articulations of half-felt, half-known feelings, without program. I'm always working toward getting my world and, hopefully, the world outside of me into a version that makes sense of it. Viciousness requires the same precision as love does.

There are always the simple events of your life that you might try to convert into legend.

Now and again I feel the astonishment of being alive like this, in this body.