Love is not love until love's vulnerable.

Reason? That dreary shed, that hutch for grubby schoolboys.

How body from spirit slowly does unwind, until we are pure spirit at the end.

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

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 can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing, In my veins, in my bones I feel it,- The small water seeping upward, The tight grains parting at last. When sprouts break out, Slippery as fish, I quail, lean to beginnings, sheath-wet.

What we need is more people who specialize in the impossible.