By daily dying, I have come to be.

And what a congress of stinks!- Roots ripe as old bait, Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich, Leaf mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks, Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.

Any fool can take a bad line out of a poem; it takes a real pro to throw out a good line.

The darkness has it's own light.

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

Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light.

So much of adolescence is an ill-defined dying, An intolerable waiting, A longing for another place and time, Another condition.