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

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

I walked around as you do, investigating the endless star, and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.

But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me.

Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood.

Day-colored wine, night-colored wine, wine with purple feet or wine with topaz blood, wine, starry child of earth.

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.