I always thought that writing poetry was in itself a political act.

Will occur as time grows more open about it.

In the increasingly convincing darkness The words become palpable, like a fruit That is too beautiful to eat.

The winter does what it can for its children.

Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you, At incredible speed, traveling day and night.

Until, accustomed to disappointments, you can let yourself rule and be ruled by these strings or emanations that connect everything together, you haven't fully exorcised the demon of doubt that sets you in motion like a rocking horse that cannot stop rocking.

Just when I thought there wasn't room enough for another thought in my head, I had this great idea—