The Secret Wish Of Poetry Is To

The Truth Is Dark Under Your Eyelids.

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

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

If The Sky Falls They Shall Have Clouds For Supper.

A Poem Is An Instant Of Lucidity In Which The Entire Organism Participates.