He Who Cannot Howl Will Not Find

Poetry: Three Mismatched Shoes At The Entrance Of A Dark Alley.

Poetry Is An Orphan Of Silence.

I Was Already Dozing Off In The Shade, Dreaming That The Rustling Trees Were My Many Selves Explaining Themselves All At The Same Time So That I Could Not Make Out A Single Word. My Life Was A Beautiful Mystery On The Verge Of Understanding, Always On The Verge! Think Of It!

Only Poetry Can Measure The Distance Between Ourselves And The Other.

The Stone Is A Mirror Which Works Poorly. Nothing In It But Dimness. Your Dimness Or Its Dimness, Who's To Say? In The Hush Your Heart Sounds Like A Black Cricket.