How can you be so many women to so many strange people, oh you strange girl?

Doreen had intuition. Everything she said was like a secret voice speaking straight out of my own bones.

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.

You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.

The floor seemed wonderfully solid. It was comforting to know I had fallen and could fall no farther.

Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.

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