“My poems do not turn out to be about Hiroshima, but about a child forming itself finger by finger in the dark. They are not about the terrors of mass extinction, but about the bleakness of the moon over a yew tree in a neighboring graveyard. Not about the testament of tortured Algerians, but about the night thoughts of a tired surgeon[…] these poems are deflections. I do not think they are an escape. For me, the issues of our time are the issues of every time – the hurt and wonder of loving; making in all its forms – children, loaves of bread, paintings, building; and the conservation of life of all people in all places[…]”