We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.

Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.

I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.

To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.

we walk the plank with strangers.

I didn't know what I was doing in New York.

Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.