Everyone Forgets Icarus Also Flew.

I Like Ornament At The Right Time, But I Don't Want A Poem To Be Made Out Of Decoration ... When I Read The Poems That Matter To Me, It Stuns Me How Much The Presence Of The Heart-in All Its Forms-is Endlessly Available There. To Experience Ourselves In An Important Way Just Knocks Me Out. It Puzzles Me Why People Have Given That Up For Cleverness. Some Of Them Are Ingenious, More Ingenious Than I Am, But So Many Of Them Aren't Any Good At Being Alive.

Suddenly This Defeat. This Rain. The Blues Gone Gray And The Browns Gone Gray And Yellow A Terrible Amber. In The Cold Streets Your Warm Body. In Whatever Room Your Warm Body. Among All The People Your Absence The People Who Are Always Not You. I Have Been Easy With Trees Too Long. Too Familiar With Mountains. Joy Has Been A Habit. Now Suddenly This Rain.

We Must Unlearn The Constellations To See The Stars.

I Ask Myself What Is The Sound Of Women? What Is The Word For That Still Thing I Have Hunted Inside Them For So Long? Deep Inside The Avalanche Of Joy, The Thing Deeper In The Dark, And Deeper Still In The Bed Where We Are Lost. Deeper, Deeper Down Where A Woman's Heart Is Holding Its Breath, Where Something Very Far Away In That Body Is Becoming Something We Don't Have A Name For.

I Dream Of Lost Vocabularies That Might Express Some Of What We No Longer Can.