... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.
Let there be a heaven so that man may outlive his grasses.
It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.