Exists No Miracle Mightier Than This: To

A Poet Is Someone Who Is Abnormally Fond Of That Precision Which Creates Movement. Which Is To Say The Highest Form Of Concentration Possible: Fascination; To Report On The Electrifying Experience Of Being

There Are Certain Things In Which One Is Unable To Believe For The Simple Reason That He Never Ceases To Feel Them. Things Of This Sort - Things Which Are Always Inside Of Us And In Fact Are Us And Which Consequently Will Not Be Pushed Off Or Away Where We Can Begin Thinking About Them - Are No Longer Things; They, And The Us Which They Are, Equals A Verb; An Is.

Someone Asked Me What Home Was And All I Could Think Of Were The Stars On The Tip Of Your Tongue, The Flowers Sprouting From Your Mouth, The Roots Entwined In The Gaps Between Your Fingers, The Ocean Echoing Inside Of Your Ribcage.

Life's Not A Paragraph And Death I Think Is No Parenthesis

Progress Is A Comfortable Disease.