For some of us, the less said about the way we do things the better.

Sometimes he did not know if he slept or just thought about sleep.

Pain is filtered in a poem so that it becomes finally, in the end, pleasure.

For some of us, the less said about the way we do things the better.

It came to my house. It sat on my shoulders. Your shadow is yours. I told it so. I said it was yours. I have carried it with me too long. I give it back.

She stood beside me for years, or was it a moment? I cannot remember. Maybe I loved her, maybe I didn't. There was a house, and then no house. There were trees, but none remain. When no one remembers, what is there? You, whose moments are gone, who drift like smoke in the afterlife, tell me something, tell me anything.

But I tend to think of the expressive part of me as rather tedious - never curious or responsive, but blind and self-serving.