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We who were loved will never unlive that crippling fever.

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Crippling Fever Love Loved Unlive

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In a history of spiritual rupture, a social compact built on fantasy and collective secrets, poetry becomes more necessary than ever: it keeps the underground aquifers flowing; it is the liquid voice that can wear through stone.
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There must be those among whom we can sit down and weep and still be counted as warriors.
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Poems are like dreams: in them you put what you don’t know you know.
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One line typed twenty years ago can be blazed on a wall in spraypaint to glorify art as detachment or torture of those we did not love but also did not want to kill.
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A decade of cutting away dead flesh, cauterizing old scars ripped open over and over and still it is not enough.
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I long to create something that can’t be used to keep us passive: I want to write a script about plumbing, how every pipe is joined to every other.
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The more I live, the more I think, two people together is a miracle.
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What would it mean to live in a city whose people were changing each other’s despair into hope?– You yourself must change it.
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I touch you knowing we weren’t born tomorrow, and somehow, each of us will help the other live, and somewhere, each of us must help the other die.
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War is an absolute failure of imagination, scientific and political.
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In [family snapshots] the flow of profane time has been stopped and a sacred interval of self-conscious revelation has been cut from it by the edge of the picture frame and the light of the sun or the flash.
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Your mind now, moldering like wedding-cake, heavy with useless experience, rich with suspicion, rumour, fantasy, crumbling to pieces under the knife-edge of mere fact. In the prime of your life.
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