I hear the singing of the lives of women. They clear mystery, the offering, and pride.

What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life?
The world would split open.

Those who speak of our culture as dead or dying have a quarrel with life, and I think they cannot understand its terms, but must endlessly repeat the projection of their own desires.

Our poems will have failed if our readers are not brought by them beyond the poems.

The universe is made of stories, not atoms.

However confused the scene of our life appears, however torn we may be who now do face that scene, it can be faced, and we can go on to be whole.