What "love" is I don't know if it's not the response of our deepest natures to one another.
I think all writing is a disease. You can't stop it.
O frost bitten blossoms, That are unfolding your wings From out the envious black branches. Bloom quickly and make much of the sunshine. The twigs conspire against you! Hear hem! They hold you from behind.
The poem is a capsule where we wrap up our punishable secrets.
Shoes twisted into incredible lilies.
What power has love but forgiveness?