What can I say without touching the earth with my hands?

Love! Love until the night collapses!

Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood.

But from each crime are born bullets that will one day seek out in you where the heart lies.

Let us look for secret things somewhere in the world on the blue shore of silence or where the storm has passed rampaging like a train. There the faint signs are left, coins of time and water, debris ,celestial ash and the irreplaceable rapture of sharing in the labour of soitude in the sand.

And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy. It climbs the same way on damp walls. You are to blame for this cruel sport. They are fleeing from my dark lair. You fill everything, you fill everything. Before you they peopled the solitude that you occupy, and they are more used to my sadness than you are. Now I want them to say what I want to say to you to make you hear as I want you to hear me.

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