Poetry Is A Sort Of Homecoming.

With A Changing Key, You Unlock The House Where The Snow Of What’s Silenced Drifts. Just Like The Blood That Bursts From Your Eye Or Mouth Or Ear, So Your Key Changes. Changing Your Key Changes The Word That May Drift With Flakes. Just Like The Wind That Rebuffs You, Clenched Round Your Word Is The Snow.

Each Arrow You Shoot Off Carries Its Own Target Into The Decidedly Secret Tangle

Who Is Invisible Enough To See You

No One Bears Witness For The Witness

The Language With Which I Make My Poems Has Nothing To Do With One Spoken Here, Or Anywhere.