I Learn By Going Where I Have

Love Begets Love. This Torment Is My Joy.

I Am Overwhelmed By The Beautiful Disorder Of Poetry, The Eternal Virginity Of Words.

We Think By Feeling. What Is There To Know?

Should We Say The Self, Once Perceived, Becomes The Soul?

To Follow The Drops Sliding From A Lifting Oar, Head Up, While The Rower Breathes, And The Small Boat Drifts Quietly Shoreward.