From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.

O merry, merry, merry, like only dogs know how to be happy and nothing more, with an absolute shameless nature.

You came to my life with what you were bringing, made of light and bread and shadow I expected you, and Like this I need you, Like this I love you, and to those who want to hear tomorrow that which I will not tell them, let them read it here, and let them back off today because it is early for these arguments.

Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.

The best poet is the man who delivers our daily bread: the local baker.

I was the owner of my own darkness.

I stalk certain words... I catch them in mid-flight, as they buzz past, I trap them, clean them, peel them, I set myself in front of the dish, they have a crystalline texture to me, vibrant, ivory, vegetable, oily, like fruit, like algae, like agates, like olives... I stir them, I shake them, I drink them, I gulp them down, I mash them, I garnish them... I leave them in my poem like stalactites, like slivers of polished wood, like coals, like pickings from a shipwreck, gifts from the waves... Everything exists in the word.