N Othi N G Can S Urpas

Always The Beautiful Answer Who Asks A More Beautiful Question.

Art Is A Mystery. A Mystery Is Something Immeasurable.

It Is With Roses And Locomotives (not To Mention Acrobats Spring Electricity Coney Island The 4th Of July The Eyes Of Mice And Niagara Falls) That My Poems Are Competing.

Nobody, Not Even The Rain, Has Such Small Hands

Now The Ears Of My Ears Awake And Now The Eyes Of My Eyes Are Opened.