What falls away is always. And is near.
I am overwhelmed by the beautiful disorder of poetry, the eternal virginity of words.
The poet: would rather eat a heart than a hambone.
What is madness but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance?
In this place of light: he dares to live Who stops being a bird, yet beats his wings Against the immense immeasurable emptiness of things.
I long for the imperishable quiet at the heart of form.