Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire

Time marks us while we are marking time.

You must believe a poem is a holy thing, a good poem, that is.

Art is the means we have of undoing the damage of haste. It's what everything else isn't.

And I rejoiced in being what I was.

The damage of teaching: the constant contact with the undeveloped.

The poet: would rather eat a heart than a hambone.