Poetry is the language of intensity. Because we are going to die, an expression of intensity is justified.

It is a function of poetry to locate those zones inside us that would be free, and declare them so.

Uniformity, in its motives, its goals, its far-ranging consequences, is the natural enemy of poetry, not to mention the enemy of trees, the soil, the exemplary life therein.

Everyone in their car needs love.

Readers have to be sought out and won to the light of the page, poem by poem, one by one by one.

Poetry takes you into the recesses of the language, the neglected corners, cracks and crannies and to the big sky of wonder. It opens the door to a critique without which you have rather boring analytical tools by comparison. To cultivate poetry means to stay with it. Not to abandon hope, but to abide.