Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.

The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.

Somebody who should have been born is gone.

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

Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.

I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.

... man is eating the earth up like a candy bar.