Poetry Is News Brought To The Mountains

Grow Your Tree Of Falsehood From A Small Grain Of Truth.

The Soul Exceeds Its Circumstances.

The Purpose Of Poetry Is To Remind Us How Difficult It Is To Remain Just One Person, For Our House Is Open, There Are No Keys In The Doors, And Invisible Guests Come In And Out At Will.

They Used To Pour Millet On Graves Or Poppy Seeds To Feed The Dead Who Would Come Disguised As Birds. I Put This Book Here For You, Who Once Lived So That You Should Visit Us No More.

I Liked Beaches, Swimming Pools, And Clinics For There They Were The Bone Of My Bone, Flesh Of My Flesh. I Pitied Them And Myself, But This Will Not Protect Me. The Word And The Thought Are Over.