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

...few Young Poets [are] Testing Their Poems Against The Ear. They're Writing For The Page, And The Page, Let Me Tell You, Is A Cold Bed.

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

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

In My Darkest Night, When The Moon Was Covered And I Roamed Through Wreckage, A Nimbus-clouded Voice Directed Me: "live In The Layers, Not On The Litter." Though I Lack The Art To Decipher It, No Doubt The Next Chapter In My Book Of Transformations Is Already Written. I Am Not Done With My Changes.

In Every House Of Marriage There's Room For An Interpreter.