I have slept with you all night long while the dark earth spins with the living and the dead, and on waking suddenly in the midst of the shadow my arm encircled your waist. Neither night nor sleep could separate us.

Look around—there's only one thing of danger for you here—poetry.

Loving is a journey with water and with stars, with smothered air and abrupt storms of flour: loving is a clash of lightning-bolts and two bodies defeated by a single drop of honey.

And our problems will crumble apart, the soul / blow through like a wind, and here where we live will all be clean again, with fresh bread on the table.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

In the house of poetry nothing endures that is not written with blood to be heard with blood.

I want to do with you what the spring does with the cherry trees.