I am the androgyne, I am the living mind you fail to describe in your dead language the lost noun, the verb surviving only in the infinitive the letters of my name are written under the lids of the newborn child

Behind all art is an element of desire...Love of life, of existence, love of another human being, love of human beings is in some way behind all art — even the most angry, even the darkest, even the most grief-stricken, and even the most embittered art has that element somewhere behind it. Because how could you be so despairing, so embittered, if you had not had something you loved that you lost?

A book of poems doesn't just come out by chance, an editor has to select it, a publisher has to distribute it or you will never see it.

Love, our subject: we've trained it like ivy to our walls.

No one sleeps in this room without the dream of a common language.

Despair, when not the response to absolute physical and moral defeat is, like war, the failure of imagination.

...you look at me like an emergency