God was finally going to believe in a man both good and strong, but good and strong are still two different men.

I slide my arm from under the sleeper's head and it is numb, full of swarming pins, on the tip of each, waiting to be counted, the fallen angels sit.

There's simply too much fuss about myself.

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.

This terrifying world is not devoid of charms, of the mornings that make waking up worthwhile.

They say the first love's most important. That's very romantic, but not my experience.

All the best have something in common, a regard for reality, an agreement to its primacy over the imagination. Even the richest, most surprising and wild imagination is not as rich, wild and surprising as reality. The task of the poet is to pick singular threads from this dense, colorful fabric.