In our plain defects we already know the brotherhood of man.
The skirts of the gods Drag in our mud. We feel the touch And take it to be a kiss.
The moon is nothing But a circumambulating aphrodisiac Divinely subsidized to provoke the world Into a rising birth-rate
Poetry is a language in which man explores his own amazement.
What is madness To those who only observe, is often wisdom To those to whom it happens.
Poetry is the language in which man explores his own amazement... says heaven and earth in one word... speaks of himself and his predicament as though for the first time.