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

Love begets love. This torment is my joy.

What have I done, dear God, to deserve this perpetual feeling that I'm almost ready to begin something really new?

I'm sure I've been a toad, one time or another. With bats, weasels, worms...I rejoice in the kinship. Even the caterpillar I can love, and the various vermin.

In the kingdom of bang and blab.

Being, not doing, is my first joy.

I wish I could find an event that meant as much as simple seeing.