“When I am asked how I began writing poems, I talk about the indifference of nature.”

“I search the language for a word to tell you how red is red.”

“This poem is endless, the odds against us are endless,our chances of being alive togetherstatistically nonexistent;”

“By the time I arrive at evening, / they have just settled down to rest; / already invisible, they are turning / into the dreamwork of the trees….”

“How swiftly the strained honeyof afternoon lightflows into darknessand the closed bud shrugs offits special mysteryin order to break into blossom:as if what exists, existsso that it can be lostand become precious”

“. . .because we had survivedsisters and brothers, daughters and sons,we discovered bones that rosefrom the dark earth and sangas white birds in the treesBecause the story of our lifebecomes our lifeBecause each of us tells the same storybut tells it differentlyand none of us tells it the same way twice . . (from, Why We Tell Stories)”

“Late Hours"On summer nights the worldmoves within earshoton the interstate with its swishand growl, and occasional sirenthat sends chills through us.Sometimes, on clear, still nights,voices float into our bedroom,lunar and fragmented,as if the sky had let them golong before our birth.In winter we close the windowsand read Chekhov,nearly weeping for his world.What luxury, to be so happythat we can grieveover imaginary lives.”