Whatever you have to say, leave The roots on, let them Dangle And the dirt Just to make clear Where they come from.
This morning of the small snow I count the blessings, the leak in the faucet which makes of the sink time, the drop of the water on water.
What does not change is the will to change
I was playing catch with the European audience.
The poem, for me, is simply the first sound realized in the modality of being.
There are no hierarchies, no infinite, no such many as mass, there are only/ eyes in all heads,/ to be looked out of.