The stars know everything, So we try to read their minds. As distant as they are, We choose to whisper in their presence.

I left parts of myself everywhere, The way absent-minded people leave Gloves and umbrellas Whose colors are sad from dispensing so much bad luck

The stone is a mirror which works poorly. Nothing in it but dimness. Your dimness or its dimness, who's to say? In the hush your heart sounds like a black cricket.

One writes because one has been touched by the yearning for and the despair of ever touching the Other.

In their effort to divorce language and experience, deconstructionist critics remind me of middle-class parents who do not allow their children to play in the street.

Only poetry can measure the distance between ourselves and the Other.

If the sky falls they shall have clouds for supper.