I Left Parts Of Myself Everywhere, The

I Left Parts Of Myself Everywhere, The Way Absent-minded People Leave Gloves And Umbrellas Whose Colors Are Sad From Dispensing So Much Bad Luck

Poetry Is An Orphan Of Silence. The Words Never Quite Equal The Experience Behind Them.

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!

I Do Believe That A Poem Needs To Remind The Reader Of His Or Her Own Humanity, Of What They Are, Of What They're Capable Of. Awaken Them, In A Sense, To The Fact That There's A World In Front Of Their Eyes, That They Have A Body, They're Going To Die, The Sky Is Beautiful, It's Fun To Be In A Grassy Field When The Sun Is Shining—those Kinds Of Things.

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.