I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.

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.

Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.

I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.

Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.

... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.

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