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

To follow the drops sliding from a lifting oar, Head up, while the rower breathes, and the small boat drifts quietly shoreward.

I can't go on flying apart just for those who want the benefit of a few verbal kicks. My God, do you know what poems like that cost? They're not written vicariously: they come out of actual suffering, real madness.

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.

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

In the kingdom of bang and blab.

Time marks us while we are marking time.