Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
Love is the bone and sinew of my curse.
Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.
I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
What is so real as the cry of a child? A rabbit's cry may be wilder But it has no soul.
Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.