Hands make the world each day.

I spin on the circle of wave upon wave of the sea.

We the mortals touch the metals, the wind, the ocean shores, the stones, knowing they will go on, inert or burning, and I was discovering, naming all the these things: it was my destiny to love and say goodbye.

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

In the house of poetry nothing endures that is not written with blood to be heard with blood.

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

Laughter is the language of the soul.