Time Is The Coin Of Life. Only

Poetry Is A Sky Dark With A Wild-duck Migration.

If I Added To Their Pride Of America, I Am Happy.

Poetry Is The Establishment Of A Metaphorical Link Between White Butterfly-wings And The Scraps Of Torn-up Love-letters.

The Dead Hold In Their Hands Only What They Have Given Away.

There Are Ten Men In Me And I Do Not Know Or Understand One Of Them.