Poetry operates by hints and dark suggestions. It is full of secrets and hidden formulae, like a witch's brew.

What you see will hurt you; what you don't see will hurt you.

Sometimes it's the smallest secrets that hold the most hope, the most fun, the most danger.

Television excites me because it seems to be the last stamping ground of poetry, the last place where I hear women's hair rhapsodically described, women's faces acclaimed in odelike language.

Mysteries, like the Masonic rites, are ones parents and elders are sworn not to reveal to the uninitiated, which include all children. And so we sought for signs.

Telling Sam and Daneca feels like peeling off my own skin to expose everything underneath. It hurts.