"Forgive me then, if the poems I write are about the fragments, the broken bridges, and unlit fences in my life. For the poet, the poem is not the measure of his [or her] love. It is the measure of all he’s [or she’s] lost, or never seen, or what has no life, unless he [or she] gives it life with words. — Diane Wakoski, last strophe to “With Words,” Emerald Ice: Selected Poems 1962-1987 (Black Sparrow Press, 1988"

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