I have been thinking about the girl I met last night in the mirror: dark on the marble-ivory white: glossy black hair: deep suspiring eyes in which one's glances sink because they are nervous, curious, turned to sexual curiosity.

I have done so many things in my life," she said to the mirror. "Evil things, perhaps. But never unattentively, never wastefully...was I wrong?

To write a poem is like trying to catch a lizard without its tail falling off.

But I love to feel events overlapping each other, crawling over one another like wet crabs in a basket

Travel can be one of the most rewarding forms of introspection.

How grudging memory is, and how bitterly she clutches the raw material of her daily work.

Music is only love looking for words.