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 world is beautiful but not sayable. That's why we need art.

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

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

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.

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

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