So much of adolescence is an ill-defined dying, An intolerable waiting, A longing for another place and time, Another condition.
Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light.
The damage of teaching: the constant contact with the undeveloped.
I have gone into the waste lonely places
What have I done, dear God, to deserve this perpetual feeling that I'm almost ready to begin something really new?
May my silences become more accurate.