If nothing saves us from death, at least love should save us from life

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.

The hardest way of learning is that of easy reading.

In the distance someone is singing.

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

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

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running. So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans.