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

Somewhere the sense makes copper roses steel roses — The rose carried weight of love but love is at an end — of roses It is at the edge of the petal that love waits.

You lethargic, waiting upon me, waiting for the fire and I attendant upon you, shaken by your beauty Shaken by your beauty Shaken.

Shoes twisted into incredible lilies.

A poem is a small machine made out of words.

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.

History must stay open, it is all humanity.