Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire

I am overwhelmed by the beautiful disorder of poetry, the eternal virginity of words.

You must believe: a poem is a holy thing - a good poem, that is. The poem, even a short time after being written, seems no miracle; unwritten, it seems something beyond the capacity of the gods.

May my silences become more accurate.

Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire

Should we say the self, once perceived, becomes the soul?

I came to love, I came into my own.