I've Had To Guess At

No One Has Imagined Us. We Want To Live Like Trees, Sycamores Blazing Through The Sulfuric Air, Dappled With Scars, Still Exuberantly Budding, Our Animal Passion Rooted In The City.

The Moment When A Feeling Enters The Body/ Is Political. This Touch Is Political

A Language Is A Map Of Our Failures

I Think Many Poets, Including Myself, Write Both For The Voice And For The Page. I Certainly Write For The Person Alone In The Library, Who Pulls Down A Book And It Opens To A Poem. I Am Also Very Conscious Of What It Means To Read These Poems Aloud.

In The Interstices Of Language Lie Powerful Secrets Of The Culture.