All Thoughts Emit A Throw Of Dice

Poetry Is The Language Of A State Of Crisis.

You Don't Make A Poem With Ideas, But With Words.

I Have Made A Long Enough Descent Into The Void To Speak With Certainty. There Is Nothing But Beauty--and Beauty Has Only One Perfect Expression, Poetry. All The Rest Is A Lie.

A Soul Trembling To Sit By A Hearth So Bright, To Exist Again, It’s Enough If I Borrow From Your Lips The Breath Of My Name You Murmur All Night.

It Is The Job Of Poetry To Clean Up Our Word-clogged Reality By Creating Silences Around Things.