Memory that yearns to join the centre, a limb remembering the body from which it has been severed, like those bamboo thighs of the god.

Peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.

When you get a class reciting some great poems, it'll tear your heart out.

The time will come when, with elation, you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror, and each will smile at the other’s welcome.

I try to forget what happiness was, and when that don't work, I study the stars.

Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor.

The voice does go up in a poem. It is an address, even if it is to oneself.