Somebody who should have been born is gone.

All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.

And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...

Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren

The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.

Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.

Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.