my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping but I shall go on living.

Love is the mystery of water and a star.

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.

We are dust and to dust return. In the end we're neither air, nor fire, nor water, just dirt, neither more nor less, just dirt, and maybe some yellow flowers.

Then love knew it was called love. And when I lifted my eyes to your name, suddenly your heart showed me my way

Why wasn't Christopher Columbus able to discover Spain?

As slippery as smooth grapes, words exploding in the light like dormant seeds waiting in the vaults of vocabulary, alive again, and giving life: once again the heart distills them.