The way a source strains toward the light, toward the air. Its laboring work, its effort, its black passageways like despair. That’s the way a poet looks for words. With muscles, gestures.

Where your pain is, there your heart lies also.

I am that which lies beyond time. Like a melody, which sounds completely only after the last note is played.

Tell me what's the difference

Poetry is a presentiment of the truth.

We cling to words like drowning men to straws. But still we drown, we drown.

I’ve learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions. What remains is what’s unsaid, what’s underneath. Understanding on another level of being.