How quiet the writing, how noisy the printing.

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

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.

There are books so alive that you're always afraid that while you weren't reading, the book has gone and changed, has shifted like a river; while you went on living, it went on living too, and like a river moved on and moved away. No one has stepped twice into the same river. But did anyone ever step twice into the same book?

Don't you know no one can escape the power of creatures reaching out with breath alone?

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

How quiet the writing, how noisy the printing.