Look around—there's only one thing of danger for you here—poetry.

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

Like a jar you housed the infinite tenderness, and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

Let us forget with generosity those who cannot love us

You are like night, calmed, constellated. Your silence is star-like, as distant, as true.

White bee, even when you are gone you buzz in my soul You live again in time, slender and silent.

If suddenly you do not exist, If suddenly you are not living, I shall go on living. I do not dare, I do not dare to write it, if you die. I shall go on living.