“The way a source strains toward the light, toward the air. Its laboring work, its effort, its black passageways like despair. That’s the way a poet looks for words. With muscles, gestures.”

“Letters of the condemned. Last words scratched on a cell’s wall. To write like that.”

“No home anymore. Nowhere to return. My house is a ruin, a cemetery. You may yearn for the grave, but just try living there.”

“I returnedto confirmthere can be no return.”

“Where your pain is, there your heart lies also.”

“I’ve learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions. What remains is what’s unsaid, what’s underneath. Understanding on another level of being.”

“Poetry is a presentiment of the truth.”