In the great cities, winter glitters with art and feasting. But poetry, the country cousin, sees only the dearth of the fields.

The Olympian gods cannot have grand passions because they cannot die.

Machismo makes no provision for preparing lunch, doing the laundry, or minding the baby.

Every good time that goes on too long turns into a hell.

Now defined as art, the totem has lost cult, taboo, and custom.

Travelling carries me to the surface, away from the deeps of home-thoughts.

No dignity without distance.