I do not believe in the beauty of falling.

You can’t have two worlds in your hands and choose emptiness.

Without you my air tastes like nothing. For you I hold my breath.

Days go by when I do nothing but underline the damp edge of myself.

Sometimes I have a hard time distinguishing between faith and hope.

Form is endlessly interesting to me, and I love poetry as a formal enterprise.

Writing poems is a chance to construct spaces that I want to imaginatively inhabit.

I turn to poems to find spaces that might enlarge, rather than distill, experience.

There’s plenty that poetry cannot do. But the miracle, of course, is how much it can do, how much it does do.

If I could/bind myself to this moment, to the slow//snare of its scent/what would it matter if I became//just the flutter of page/in a text someone turns//to examine me/in the wrong color?

I think that a good deal of poetry and art gives us some sense of access to another's voice, perception, texture of thought, imagination. Sometimes it gives us better access to the strangeness in ourselves.

When I was young, I reached a point where I found myself unable to pray. I was devastated by it. I missed being able to say words in my head that I believed could be heard by a being, a consciousness outside me. That is when I turned to poetry.

I have always been attracted to apostrophe, perhaps because of its resemblance to prayer. A voice reaches out to something beyond itself that cannot answer it. I find that moving in part because it enacts what is true of all address and communication on some level - it cannot fully be heard, understood, or answered.

I was thinking recently about the popularity of TV shows about people shopping for houses. I wonder if part of their appeal is the chance to vicariously imagine our lives playing out in a variety of spaces. We have a sense that the shape and style of our dwellings affects the shapes of the lives that unfold within them.

Share This Page