My tears are like the quiet drift of petals from some magic rose; and all my grief flows from the rift of unremembered skies and snows. I think that if I touched the earth, it would crumble; it is so sad and beautiful, so tremulously like a dream.

He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest.

[I'm]a freak user of words, not a poet.

It snowed last year too: I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.

I sang in my chains like the sea

Love is the last light spoken.

Don't be too harsh to these poems until they're typed. I always think typescript lends some sort of certainty: at least, if the things are bad then, they appear to be bad with conviction.