“The children walk away from me, flick flickety off at a tangent between thin blotched beech trunks, then turn like yo-yos at the end of their strings and come back to me" from the poem "In a BishopsWood Clearing”

“Poems, to me, do not come from ideas, they come from a series of images that you tuck away in the back of your brain. Little photographic snapshots. Then you get the major vision of the poem, which is like a giant magnet to which all these disparate little impressions fly and adhere, and there is the poem!”

“grappling with some small understanding of this place, this time, we're in" my poem "In a BishopsWood Clearing”

“Walking away from you was like walking away from the best part of me. I almost didn’t recognize him.Walking away from you was like walking away from the best part of me. I almost didn’t recognize him.”

“How sad for us that I have made a myth of us when what keeps me from sleeping is the memory of...your honest back turned, waiting for me to walk away from you.”

“A filament of sensation sizzled between them, like a thin string of kerosene that, for the love of a match, could turn into a wall of fire.”