You can say anything you want, yessir, but it's the words that sing, they soar and descend...I bow to them...I love them, I cling to them, I run them down, I bite into them, I melt them down...I love words so much...The unexpected ones...The ones I wait for greedily or stalk until, suddenly, they drop.

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

And what has become of it, where is that onetime love? Now it is the grave of a bird, a drop of black quartz, a chunk of wood eroded by the rain.

I want to do for you what the spring does for the cherry trees

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I need the sea because it teaches me

I believed that the way passed through Man, and that it was from there that destiny had to emerge.