O Love, How Did You Get Here?

What Did My Fingers Do Before They Held Him? What Did My Heart Do, With Its Love?

I Have Stitched Life Into Me Like A Rare Organ

I Used To Pray To Recover You.

Poetry, I Feel, Is A Tyrannical Discipline. You've Got To Go So Far, So Fast, In Such A Small Space, That You've Got To Burn Away All The Peripherals.

I Love The People,' I Said. 'i Have Room In Me For Love, And For Ever So Many Little Lives.