What's grief but the after-blindness/of the spirit's dazzle of love?

Words cannot express as music does, that unsayable grace which cannot be defined. It leaps like light from mind to mind.

Sometimes my poetry is an attempt to keep off existential terror; sometimes it is a grappling with philosophical problems; sometimes just fun.

Time has told me less than I need to know.

a poem is like a wine glass in which you can hold up a little bit of reality and taste it.

What's grief but the after-blindness/of the spirit's dazzle of love?