He was his own leftover, the spat-out scrag. He was what his brain could make nothing of.

I shall also take you forth and carve our names together in a yew tree, haloed with stars.

He could not stand. It was not That he could not thrive, he was born With everything but the will – That can be deformed, just like a limb. Death was more interesting to him. Life could not get his attention.

Applause is the beginning of abuse

Prose, narratives, etcetera, can carry healing. Poetry does it more intensely.

The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated. And the only thing people regret is that they didn't live boldly enough, that they didn't invest enough heart, didn't love enough. Nothing else really counts at all.

It took the whole of Creation to produce my foot, my each feather: now I hold Creation in my foot.