Your slightest look easily will unclose me, though I have closed myself as fingers, you open petal by petal myself a Spring opens her first rose.

may I be I is the only prayer--not may I be great or good or beautiful or wise or strong.

one pierced moment whiter than the rest -turning from the tremendous lie of sleep i watch the roses of the day grow deep.

The whole truth... sings only - and all lovers are the song.

It is with roses and locomotives (not to mention acrobats Spring electricity Coney Island the 4th of July the eyes of mice and Niagara Falls) that my poems are competing.

That which we die for lives as wholly as that which we live for dies.

You and I are more than you and I because it's we.