History, history! We fools, what do we know or care.

I pick the hair from her eyes and watch her misery with compassion.

Either I exist or I do not exist, and no amount of pap which I happen to be lapping can dull me to the loss.

A profusion of pink roses being ragged in the rain speaks to me of all gentleness and its enduring.

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.

If it ain't a pleasure, it ain't a poem.

A new world is only a new mind.