Slowly my body grows a single sound, slowly I become a bell, an oval, disembodied vowel, I grow, an owl, an aureole, white fire poesia "Metamorfosi, I. Luna

We make too much of that long groan which underlines the past.

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.

In Eden who sleeps happiest? The serpent.

Who cares about a kid from the Midwest writing pentameter? It's stupid.

I look in the mirror. There's me. What's in the mirror is not real. So am I unreal?

The truest writers are those who see language not as a linguistic process but as a living element.