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.

Loveless work, boring work, work valued only because others haven't got even that much, however loveless and boring - this is one of the harshest human miseries.

When I pronounce the word Future, the first syllable already belongs to the past. When I pronounce the word Silence, I destroy it.

All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.

I'm drowning in papers.

It's just not easy to explain to someone else what you don't understand yourself.

I cannot speak for more than an hour exclusively about poetry. At that point, life itself takes over again.