I can't go on flying apart just for those who want the benefit of a few verbal kicks. My God, do you know what poems like that cost? They're not written vicariously: they come out of actual suffering, real madness.

The visible exhausts me. I am dissolved in shadow.

Love begets love. This torment is my joy.

May my silences become more accurate.

Those who are willing to be vulnerable move among mysteries.

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

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