along with the rest of our helpless world; and, O, if you could, you would, where lovers walked, sell off trees and not give a flying fuck for the muted mausoleums of the bees.
I write quite a lot of sonnets, and I think of them almost as prayers: short and memorable, something you can recite.
When you have a child, your previous life seems like someone else's. It's like living in a house and suddenly finding a room you didn't know was there, full of treasure and light.
I have piles of poetry books in the bathroom, on the stairs, everywhere. The only way to write poetry is to read it.
I'll be left writing picture books and fairy tales.
Like the sand and the oyster, it's a creative irritant. In each poem, I'm trying to reveal a truth, so it can't have a fictional beginning.
