Someone asked me what home was and all I could think of were the stars on the tip of your tongue, the flowers sprouting from your mouth, the roots entwined in the gaps between your fingers, the ocean echoing inside of your ribcage.

The sensual mysticism of entire vertical being.

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

Next to of course god America i / love you land of the pilgrims and so forth oh

O sweet spontaneous earth

...sunlight is (life and day are)only loaned:whereas night is given(night and death and the rain are given;and given is how beautifully snow)

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands