Memory, all-night’s bedside tattoo artist.

Inside is where we meet everyone else; it’s on the outside that we are truly alone.

For Emily Dickinson every philosophical idea was a potential lover. Metaphysics is the realm of eternal seduction of the spirit by ideas.

A true confession: I believe in a soluble fish.

One writes because one has been touched by the yearning for and the despair of ever touching the Other.

Poetry: three mismatched shoes at the entrance of a dark alley.

In their effort to divorce language and experience, deconstructionist critics remind me of middle-class parents who do not allow their children to play in the street.

Poetry is an orphan of silence.

The ambition of much of today’s literary theory seems to be to find ways to read literature without imagination.

The idea is to spin the wheel of metaphors and images until sparks of associations begin to fly for the reader.

The ProdigalDark morning rainMeant to fallOn a prison and a schoolyard,Falling meanwhileOn my mother and her old dog.How slow she shuffles nowIn my father’s Sunday shoes.The dog by her sideTrembling with each stepAs he tries...