Over every mountain there is a path, although it may not be seen from the valley.

What's important? That which is dug out of books, or out of the guts?

I teach my sighs to lengthen into songs.

(I measure time by how a body sways.)

And what a congress of stinks!- Roots ripe as old bait, Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich, Leaf mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks, Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.

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

In the kingdom of bang and blab.