I have always loved aphorisms – self contained, short, sometimes sharp bursts of words that pull you up short, make you smile in rueful recognition, take a quicker breath or they simply echo and chime:

A poem is a little machine for remembering itself

All true poems are fugitive, being embarrassed by their human source

Always an error to make someone profess what they will not volunteer – especially in love, where spontaneity of its declaration is all the language ever holds of it

Only the dead have a past. As long as we breathe we can be called to account for everything

Yes, there are only ever misreadings, of course; but mine is the correct one…

Inconveniently, books are all the pages in them, not just the ones you choose to read…

We turn from the light to see