“maybe we try too hard to be remembered, waking to the glowing yellow disc in ignorance, swearing that today will be the day, today we will makesomething of our lives. what if we are so busy searching for worth that we miss the sapphire sky and cackling blackbird. what else is missing?maybe our steps are too straight and our paths too narrow and not overlapping. maybe when they overlap someone in another country lights a candle, a coupleresolves their argument, a young man puts down his silver gun and walks away.”

“We dropped our troubles into the lap of the storyteller, and they turned into someone else's.”

“Anyone who says, “Here’s my address,write me a poem,” deserves something in reply.So I’ll tell a secret instead:poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,they are sleeping. They are the shadowsdrifting across our ceilings the moment before we wake up. What we have to dois live in a way that lets us find them.”

“Later our dreams begin catching fire around the edges, they burn like paper, we wake with our hands full of ash.”

“Maybe when your mother died young, you became instantly old.”

“Where we live in the worldis never one place. Our hearts,those dogged mirrors, keep flashing usmoons before we are ready for them.”

“We walked where the ancient pier juts into the sea.Stood on the rim of the pool, by the circleof black boulders. No one saw we were thereand everyone who had ever been therestood silently in air.Where else do we ever have to go, and why?”