I came where the river Ran over stones; My ears knew An early joy. And all the waters Of all the streams Sang in my veins That summer day.

Time marks us while we are marking time.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?

May my silences become more accurate.

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

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

The stones were sharp, The wind came at my back; Walking along the highway, Mincing like a cat.