The little queen lived in a world where the sky swirled like the sea and nothing was itself for very long. Everything looked to be in brushstrokes.
Art allows us to die over and over without actually dying. Only we must catch our breath.
I let quiet shape what I say, then realize there is nothing that can be fully said—the reason for gestures and eyes and art. Always something waiting, wanting, expectant, yet also curiously not.
Maybe all you need to do is find the heartbeat in everything. And if writing is living, the discovery of the beat of a heart, then when you read me, you are living by my side.
I would like to do more in appreciating the mindset of the child. Maybe it has something to do with taking ourselves very seriously and with great disregard, as well as having a healthy does of awe and doubt for all else.
A word is a word is another word more beautiful because of the former and the next and the circle and sun they create.
Is it not so presumptuous to write a word? To write a word is to give the word a space all of its own. You build a home for it and hope it can find itself at home among all the other words. Nestled in a new place.
If I could simply place the various parts of myself into the night sky to occasionally glance up and behold myself—maybe in the end I am only hoping to vicariously soak up some starlight.
Whenever she felt at home, there always seemed to be love floating about on the edges of things.
I wonder how much space I take up, if a thought can take up secondary space.
The little queen’s mother and father had said that she would live on, for a long time, and that her tears would magnify the life around her forever more, but they had not explained how she should go about going on.
I should think a poet president would be able to create a delectable confluence of various spaces. A poet is most political.
Let us take our tongues and stick them out and waggle them in the wind. Let us walk, loving, let us walk and love, walking along, loving.
In this summer heat, I must remember that the realest things are the closest and farthest away, like the warmth found in winter: the heat hidden in the folds of one’s coat, a lost floating breath, a kiss across the distance of zero degrees.
Being in the country is like being in a dream—one doesn’t quite know who one is. There is an anonymity to it all—that strange human creature that is me, one among all.