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.

And I walked, I walked through the light air; I moved with the morning.

What falls away is always. And is near.

And I rejoiced in being what I was.

The self says, I am; The heart says, I am less; The spirit says, you are Nothing.

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