“It’s best to recognize that you’re not going to write many brilliant poems. If just one stands the test of time, that’s something that justifies your existence.”

Dusk—and the shimmer on the sea
has quickened and gone still. The large,
lithe Hurricane birds soar in circles

Believe the sullen sense that sickness made,
And broke you in its hands.

Forgive me, it is what I made of you
In squalls, in Mardi Gras and ballyhoo.

If we give our belief to the earth, it will believe in us. There is no better blessing than to be believed in.