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.

The classics can console. But not enough.

The thing that is believed is a reality.

I too saw the wooden horse blocking the stars.

In Eden who sleeps happiest? The serpent.

When poems are no good they don't make any sense.

The future happens. No matter how much we scream.