What we desire, more than a season or weather, is the comfort
Of being strangers, at least to ourselves.

But I tend to think of the expressive part of me as rather tedious - never curious or responsive, but blind and self-serving.

He lives all alone now, in the home they bought,
and finally seems to be managing, more or less.
Not the way he was, of course, with her,
who lives alone now, too, at the same address.

- Separatio in Loco

Poetry is, first and last, language - the rest is filler.

Pain is filtered in a poem so that it becomes finally, in the end, pleasure.

When we walk in the sun
our shadows are like barges of silence.