No wreaths please - especially no hothouse flowers. Some common memento is better, something he prized and is known by: his old clothes - a few books perhaps.

The poem is a capsule where we wrap up our punishable secrets.

Shoes twisted into incredible lilies.

As birds' wings beat the solid air without which none could fly so words freed by the imagination affirm reality by their flight.

I think all writing is a disease. You can't stop it.

A poem is this:/A nuance of sound/delicately operating/upon a cataract of sense/...the particulars/of a song waking/upon a bed of sound.

The beauty is in the eye of the beholder.