may my heart always be open to little birds who are the secrets of living

If a poet is anybody, he is somebody to whom things made matter very little - somebody who is obsessed by Making.

my mind is a big hunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and taste and smell and hearing and sight keep hitting and chipping with sharp fatal tools in an agony of sensual chisels i perform squirms of chrome and ex -ecute strides of cobalt nevertheless i feel that i cleverly am being altered that i slightly am becoming something a little different, in fact myself hereupon helpless i utter lilac shrieks and scarlet bellowings

Really unreal world, will you perhaps do the breathing for me while I am away?

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)

when man determined to destroy himself he picked the was of shall and finding only why smashed it into because.

The sweet small clumsy feet of april came into the ragged meadow of my soul.