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.

Art is the means we have of undoing the damage of haste. It's what everything else isn't.

I came to love, I came into my own.

The darkness has it's own light.

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

(I measure time by how a body sways.)

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I feel my fate in what I cannot fear. I learn by going where I have to go.