Each moment is a place you’ve never been.
The future is always beginning now.
We’re only here for a short while. And I think it’s such a lucky accident, having been born, that we’re almost obliged to pay attention.
I feel that anything is possible in a poem.
When I walk I part the air and always the air moves in to fill the spaces where my body’s been.
But I tend to think of the expressive part of me as rather tedious – never curious or responsive, but blind and self-serving.
Even this late it happens the coming of love, the coming of light. You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves, stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows, sending up warm bouquets of air. Even this late the bones of the body shine and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.
Once you start describing nothingness, you end up with somethingness.
From the reader’s view, a poem is more demanding than prose.