In you is the illusion of each day. You arrive like the dew to the cupped flowers. You undermine the horizon with your absence. Eternally in flight like the wave.

If we were not so single-minded about keeping our lives moving and for once could do nothing, perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves and of threatening ourselves with death Perhaps the world can teach us as when everything seems dead but later proves to be alive.

The typewriter separated me from a deeper intimacy with poetry, and my hand brought me closer to that intimacy again.

As if you were on fire from within. The moon lives in the lining of your skin.

O merry, merry, merry, like only dogs know how to be happy and nothing more, with an absolute shameless nature.

What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?

I think it was very informative, but a lot still needs to be done.