Poetry Is An Orphan Of Silence. The

If I Believe In Anything, It Is In The Dark Night Of The Soul. Awe Is My Religion, And Mystery Is Its Church.

Only Brooms Know The Devil Still Exists, That The Snow Grows Whiter After A Crow Has Flown Over It

There Are Knives That Glitter Like Altars In A Dark Church Where They Bring The Cripple And The Imbecile To Be Healed. There's A Woden Block Where Bones Are Broken, Scraped Clean--a River Dried To Its Bed

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

One Writes Because One Has Been Touched By The Yearning For And The Despair Of Ever Touching The Other.