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

From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.

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

I do not love you except because I love you; I go from loving to not loving you, From waiting to not waiting for you My heart moves from cold to fire. I love you only because it's you the one I love; I hate you deeply, and hating you Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you Is that I do not see you but love you blindly. Maybe January light will consume My heart with its cruel Ray, stealing my key to true calm. In this part of the story I am the one who Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you, Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots?

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.