First there’s the mark, then the marker, the
scratch then the scratcher, the
wound then the wounder, decreed before

the creation of the world. The murder takes place
long before the murderer moseys along to
commit it, in an

out-of-the-way cinema, behind a
curtain we’ll never penetrate. All
action has taken place, all damsels

kidnapped and rescued, Titanics
sunk and rediscovered, all children
waving plump arms and legs
then conceived, all shadows

walking along ahead of their casters (but
not too far), all deaths
unpostponed and already come to pass before we
arrive at the appointment with our
best or worst faces forward, our
best or worst suits with roses pinned in their
lapels and last words on our lips that will
blaze down through the ages for their
succinct wisdom or else non sequitur numbness,
a summing up that includes the
eagle diving off its summit, or an offhand remark
suddenly having to suffice. Something about
turning on the night light. Something about
tucking in the covers, or closing the
glove compartment tighter, suddenly

made into our last words because there will
be no others. These too

decreed. And the light
coming up on the wall. The rainbow
rising and arcing across, band by
band of excruciatingly

beautiful colors the dead no longer see
and the living just barely appreciate.

(from I Imagine a Lion)
"For me the province of poetry is a private ecstasy made public, and the social role of the poet is to display moments of shared universal epiphanies capable of healing our sense of mortal estrangement—from ourselves, from each other, from our source, from our destiny, from The Divine."