There are two versions to every poem – the crying version and the straight version

Little sleep's-head sprouting hair in the moonlight, when I come back we will go out together, we will walk out together among, the ten thousand things, each scratched too late with such knowledge, the wages of dying is love.

Go so deep into yourself, you speak for everyone.

It is necessary to reteach a thing its loveliness, to put a hand on its brow of the flower and retell it in words and in touch it is lovely until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing.

There are two versions to every poem – the crying version and the straight version

To me, poetry is somebody standing up, so to speak, and saying, with as little concealment as possible, what it is for him or her to be on earth at this moment

Is there a mechanism of death, that so mutilates existence no one, gets over it not even the dead?