The Red Poppy The great thing is not having a mind. Feelings: oh, I have those; they govern me. I have a lord in heaven called the sun, and open for him, showing him the fire of my own heart, fire like his presence. What could such glory be if not a heart? Oh my brothers and sisters, were you like me once, long ago, before you were human? Did you permit yourselves to open once, who would never open again? Because in truth I am speaking now the way you do. I speak because I am shattered.

What was difficult was the travel, which, on arrival, is forgotten.

From the beginning of time, in childhood, I thought that pain meant I was not loved. It meant I loved.

I had nothing and I was still changed. Like a costume, my numbness was taken away. Then hunger was added.

At the end of my suffering/there was a door.

The love of form is a love of endings.

Balm of the summer night, balm of the ordinary, imperial joy and sorrow of human existence, the dreamed as well as the lived— what could be dearer than this, given the closeness of death?