It Is Sweet To Think I Was

I Was Left Behind With The Immensity Of Existing Things. A Sponge, Suffering Because It Cannot Saturate Itself; A River, Suffering Because Reflections Of Clouds And Trees Are Not Clouds And Trees.

Irony Is The Glory Of Slaves.

On The Day The World Ends A Bee Circles A Clover, A Fisherman Mends A Glimmering Net.

What Is Poetry Which Does Not Save Nations Or People?

What Is This Enigmatic Impulse That Does Not Allow One To Settle Down In The Achieved, The Finished? I Think It Is A Quest For Reality.