Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.

Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It’s as though I could fly.

The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.

Love your self's self where it lives.

Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.

I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!

I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.