And what has become of it, where is that onetime love? Now it is the grave of a bird, a drop of black quartz, a chunk of wood eroded by the rain.

Only do not forget, if I wake up crying it's only because in my dream I'm a lost child hunting through the leaves of the night for your hands.

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark, vacillating, stretched out, shivering with sleep, downward, in the soaked guts of the earth, absorbing and thinking, eating each day.

Let us forget with generosity those who cannot love us

Love is short, but forgetting is long.

When I got the chance I asked them a slew of questions. They offered to burn me; it was the only thing they knew.

The best poet is the man who delivers our daily bread: the local baker.