An amazing observation: it is precisely for feelings that one needs time, not for thought. ... Feelings, obviously, are more demanding than thought.

Who sleeps at night? No one is sleeping.
 In the cradle a child is screaming.
 An old man sits over his death, and anyone
 young enough talks to his love, breathes 
into her lips, looks into her eyes.

I am a moonbeam, free to go whenever I choose.

Meanings are translatable. Words are untranslatable… More briefly – a word is translatable, its sound is not.

What is this gypsy passion for separation, this readiness to rush off when we've just met? My head rests in my hands as I realize, looking into the night that no one turning over our letters has yet understood how completely and how deeply faithless we are, which is to say: how true we are to ourselves.

In this most Christian of worlds all poets are Jews.

My verses are my diary. My poetry is a poetry of proper names.