Damn wind shift sudden as a woman mind.
Time is the metre, memory the only plot.
For every poet it is always morning in the world; history a forgotten, insomniac night. The fate of poetry is to fall in love with the world in spite of history.
Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor.
The mirror is believed the way a poem is believed. It's believed because it's there.
We read, we travel, we become.