There are two versions to every poem – the crying version and the straight version
Turn on the dream you lived through the unwavering gaze. It is as you thought: the living burn. In the floating days may you discover grace.
Is there a mechanism of death, that so mutilates existence no one, gets over it not even the dead?
Never mind. The self is the least of it. Let our scars fall in love.
Let our scars fall in love.
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