Conspirators in pajamas who exchange deep kisses for passwords.

The road made wet by the water of August shines like it was cut in full moonlight

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

Donde termina el arco iris, en tu alma o en el horizonte? Where does the rainbow end, in your soul or on the horizon?

Your wide eyes are the only light I know from extinguished constellations.

I built up these lumber piles of love, and with fourteen boards each I built little houses, so that your eyes, which I adore and sing to, might live in them. Now that I have declared the foundations of my love, I surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life.

I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases.