My surface is myself. Under which to witness, youth is buried. Roots? Everybody has roots.

Afraid lest he be caught up in a net of words, tripped up, bewildered and so defeated-thrown aside-a man hesitates to write down his innermost convictions.

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.

History must stay open, it is all humanity.

The beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year.

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