“That's how it is sometimes--God comes to your window, all bright light and black wings, and you're just too tired to open it.”

“Moon In the WindowI wish I could say I was the kind of childwho watched the moon from her window,would turn toward it and wonder.I never wondered. I read. Dark signsthat crawled toward the edge of the page.It took me years to grow a heartfrom paper and glue. All I had was a flashlight, bright as the moon,a white hole blazing beneath the sheets.”

“Who you are contributes to your poetry in a number of important ways, but you shouldn't identify with your poems so closely that when they are cut, you're the one that bleeds.”

“You are not your poetry. Your self-esteem shouldn't depend on whether you publish, or whether some editor or writer you admire thinks you're any good.”

“You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake, ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs window. (from "Antilamentation")”

“The slate black sky. The middle stepof the back porch. And long agomy mother's necklace, the beadsrolling north and south. Brokenthe rose stem, water into drops, glassknob on the bedroom door. Last summer'spot of parsley and mint, white rootsshooting like streamers through the cracks.Years ago the cat's tail, the bird bath,the car hood's rusted latch. Brokenlittle finger on my right hand at birth--I was pulled out too fast. What hasn''tbeen rent, divided, split? Broken the days into nights, the night skyinto stars, the stars into patternsI make up as I trace themwith a broken-off bladeof grass. Possible, unthinkable,the cricket's tiny back as I lieon the lawn in the dark, my harta blue cup fallen from someone's hands. ”

“You've walked those streets a thousand times and stillyou end up here. Regret none of it, not oneof the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,when the lights from the carnival rideswere the only stars you believed in, loving themfor their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a houseafter the TV set has been pitched out the upstairswindow. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptiedof expectation. Relax. Don't bother rememberingany of it. Let's stop here, under the lit signon the corner, and watch all the people walk by.”