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The letters combine into words that resurrect the beloved every time.

Nothing holds the universe together; nothing is the secret force.

Mostly, though, you could turn them in your hand, hold them to your nose.

He wrote and rewrote endlessly, and rose at night to reread pages.

I do not intend in these pages to put in a plea for this little novel.

Children, this is what a bad dream looks like, our teacher said.

She had come to the scene where she needed to get them in bed.

Perhaps more than ever writers may have two kinds of fame.

For my part, I do not want a Happy Christmas: I want a Merry Christmas.

This is a crafty story and things are not what they seem to be.

Poets need to be
in constant touch with the extremes of feeling.

Mother had always told me that everybody loves a self-absorbed ass.

That, indeed, is very nearly the whole of the higher artistic process.

Warm breath in my ear mouthing a name; rivulet folded back in water.

Jayne Anne Phillips

I continue composing my love letter, hoping to love her more.

When he died earlier this year an enormous hole was left in my life.

I don’t remember being born, only the great dog whose fur I clung to.

I knew in the dream that I was a condor in the shape of a girl.

Barbra Nightingale

He was getting a divorce. I was married with two teenage children.

You think I couldn’t write it because I look like a mechanic, I said.

American poetry is afflicted by modesty of ambition.

Michael Wiegers

The act of poetry most often begins and ends in  solitude.

Poetry can open. Is there a case for poetry in this plague year?

Grandfather advised me: learn a trade. I learned to sit at a desk.

My mother taught me to rebel within the boundaries of acceptability.