I was already dozing off in the shade, dreaming that the rustling trees were my many selves explaining themselves all at the same time so that I could not make out a single word. My life was a beautiful mystery on the verge of understanding, always on the verge! Think of it!

He who cannot howl will not find his pack.

Words make love on the page like flies in the summer heat and the poet is only the bemused spectator.

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

Poetry: three mismatched shoes at the entrance of a dark alley.

If the sky falls they shall have clouds for supper.

Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them.