To walk into Bill Olsen's poems is to enter a mind so weirdly curious, you can't be released to sadness, not yet: it's just… — Marianne Boruch Copy Share Image
A pencil in my hand, its secret life / is charcoal, the wood already burnt, / a sacrifice. — Marianne Boruch Copy Share Image
A poem is a box, a thing, to put other things in. For safe keeping. — Marianne Boruch Copy Share Image
