If I could/bind myself to this moment, to the slow//snare of its scent/what would it matter if I became//just the flutter of page/in a text someone turns//to examine me/in the wrong color?

Without you my air tastes like nothing. For you I hold my breath.

I do not believe in the beauty of falling.

You can’t have two worlds in your hands and choose emptiness.

There’s plenty that poetry cannot do, but the miracle, of course, is how much it can do, how much it does do.

I turn to poems to find spaces that might enlarge, rather than distill, experience.

Sometimes I have a hard time distinguishing between faith and hope.

When I was young, I reached a point where I found myself unable to pray. I was devastated by it. I missed being able to say words in my head that I believed could be heard by a being, a consciousness outside me. That is when I turned to poetry.

Writing poems is a chance to construct spaces that I want to imaginatively inhabit.

I was thinking recently about the popularity of TV shows about people shopping for houses. I wonder if part of their appeal is the chance to vicariously imagine our lives playing out in a variety of spaces. We have a sense that the shape and style of our dwellings affects the shapes of the lives that unfold within them.