Nothing's a gift, it's all on loan

Dying - you can't do that to a cat.

Such certainty is beautiful, but uncertainty is more beautiful still

I prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.

Something doesn't start at its usual time. Something doesn't happen as it should. Someone was always, always here, then suddenly disappeared and stubbornly stays disappeared.

All the best have something in common, a regard for reality, an agreement to its primacy over the imagination.

Four billion people on this earth, but my imagination is still the same. It's bad with large numbers. It's still taken by particularity. It flits in the dark like a flashlight, illuminating only random faces while all the rest go blindly by, never coming to mind and never really missed. . . . I can't tell you how much I pass over in silence.