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

I don’t love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz or arrow of carnations that propagate fire: I love you as certain dark things are loved, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.

Love is not about property, diamonds and gifts. It is about sharing your very self with the world around you.

When your hands leap towards mine, love, what do they bring me in flight?

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

Your house sounds like a train at midday, the wasps buzz, the saucepans sing, the waterfall enumerates the deeds of the dew . . .