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

To open the dictionary of the Beyond and discover what one suspected, that the only word in it is nothing.

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.

It's very hard to write humor.

In a field I am the absence of field. This is always the case. Wherever I am I am what is missing.

When I walk I part the air and always the air moves in to fill the spaces where my body's been.