The Bud Stands For All Things, Even

Is There A Mechanism Of Death, That So Mutilates Existence No One, Gets Over It Not Even The Dead?

The Rest Of My Days I Spend Wandering: Wondering What, Anyway, Was That Sticky Infusion, That Rank Flavor Of Blood, That Poetry, By Which I Lived?

To Me, Poetry Is Somebody Standing Up, So To Speak, And Saying, With As Little Concealment As Possible, What It Is For Him Or Her To Be On Earth At This Moment

Sometimes It Is Necessary To Reteach A Thing Its Loveliness

Let Our Scars Fall In Love.