Here (Jerusalem), tears do not weaken the eyes, they only polish and shine the hardness of faces like stone.

The memory of my father is wrapped up in white paper, like sandwiches taken for a day of work. Just as a magician takes towers and rabbits out of his hat, he drew love from his small body.

Tonight I think again of many days that are sacrificed for one night of love. Of the waste and the fruit of the waste, of plenty and of fire. And how painlessly-time.

There are two languages: one as things seem to us and the other of knowledge.

The reason a poet is a poet is to write poems, not to advertise himself as a poet.

Love is like a reservoir of kindness and pleasure, like silos and pools during a siege.

The phrase I like to use to describe my sense of time-a play on comparative literature - is comparative time.