I have been eating poetry.

These wrinkles are nothing These gray hairs are nothing, This stomach which sags with old food, these bruised and swollen ankles, my darkening brain, they are nothing. I am the same boy my mother used to kiss.

And what does it matter when light enters the room where a child sleeps and the waking mother, opening her eyes, wishes more than anything to be unwakened by what she cannot name?

Once you start describing nothingness, you end up with somethingness.

We all have reasons for moving. I move to keep things whole.

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

The future is always beginning now.