Our Lives Are Like A Candle In

It Is The Business Of Little Minds To Shrink.

There Is No Song To Your Singing.

The Greatest Cunning Is To Have None At All.

Poetry Is A Shuffling Of Boxes Of Illusions Buckled With A Strap Of Facts.

Poetry Is A Theorem Of A Yellow-silk Handkerchief Knotted With Riddles, Sealed In A Balloon Tied To The Tail Of A Kite Flying In A White Wind Against A Blue Sky In Spring.