Money is a kind of poetry.

The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin.

...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.

What our eyes behold may well be the text of life but one's meditations on the text and the disclosures of these meditations are no less a part of the structure of reality.

After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.

The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to.

Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?