Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.
We open the halves of a miracle, and a clotting of acids brims into the starry divisions: creation's original juices, irreducible, changeless, alive: so the freshness lives on
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
I like on the table, when we're speaking, the light of a bottle of intelligent wine.
You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming.
Whom can I ask what I came to make happen in this world? Why do I move without wanting to, why am I not able to sit still? Why do I go rolling without wheels, flying without wings or feathers, and why did I decide to migrate if my bones live in Chile?