I opened my veins. Unstoppably life spurts out with no remedy. Now I set out bowls and plates. Every bowl will be shallow. Every plate will be small. And overflowing their rims, into the black earth, to nourish the rushes unstoppably without cure, gushes poetry.

The one that burned the hottest is the first to die.

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

And soon all of us will sleep under the earth, we who never let each other sleep above it.

Wings are freedom only when they are wide open in flight. On one's back they are a heavy weight.

How quiet the writing, how noisy the printing.

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