A Longing For The Dance Stirs In

Memory Is Each Man's Poet-in-residence.

What Makes The Engine Go? Desire, Desire, Desire.

The Poem In The Head Is Always Perfect. Resistance Begins When You Try To Convert It Into Language.

We Have All Been Expelled From The Garden, But The Ones Who Suffer Most In Exile Are Those Who Are Still Permitted To Dream Of Perfection.

I Want To Write Poems That Are Natural, Luminous, Deep, Spare. I Dream Of An Art So Transparent That You Can Look Through And See The World.