The instant trivial as it is is all we have unless-unless things the imagination feeds upon, the scent of the rose, startle us anew.

For the beginning is assuredly the end- since we know nothing, pure and simple, beyond our own complexities.

Shoes twisted into incredible lilies.

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.

A new world is only a new mind.

What power has love but forgiveness? In other words by its intervention what has been done can be undone. What good is it otherwise?

We sit and talk quietly, with long lapses of silence, and I am aware of the stream that has no language, coursing beneath the quiet heaven of your eyes, which has no speech.