I try to stay a civilian, to live as a human, not as a poet.

The phrase I like to use to describe my sense of time-a play on comparative literature - is comparative time.

Tonight I think again of many days that are sacrificed for one night of love. Of the waste and the fruit of the waste, of plenty and of fire. And how painlessly-time.

Even if a poet writes about sitting in a glass house drinking tea, it reflects politics.

The reason a poet is a poet is to write poems, not to advertise himself as a poet.

The soul inside me is the last foreign language I'm learning.

I think the end is endless. It's either a big black hole or a big white light or both together. But it's totally meaningless, because even if someone would explain it, I wouldn't understand it.