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.

There’s no preparation for poetry.

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

Wanted: a needle swift enough to sew this poem into a blanket.

I slept little, read a lot, and fell in love frequently.

Inside my empty bottle I was constructing a lighthouse while all others were making ships.

There are people who live inside their heads and their intellects. It's something one is born with and stuck with. It's not something you make a decision about.