What Would Happen If One Woman Told

The Heavy Sensual Shoulders, The Thighs, The Blood-born Flesh And Earth Turning Into Color, Rocks Into Their Crystals, Water To Sound, Fire To Form: Life Flickers Uncounted Into The Supple Arms Of Love.

A Work Of Art Is One Through Which The Consciousness Of The Artist Is Able To Give Its Emotions To Anyone Who Is Prepared To Receive Them.

I Am Working Out The Vocabulary Of My Silence.

I Am Haunted By Interrupted Acts, Introspective As A Leper, Enchanted By A Repulsive Clew, A Gross And Fugitive Movement Of The Limbs. Is This The Love That Shook The Lights To Flame?

The Truth Of A Poem Is Its Form And Its Content, Its Music And Its Meaning Are The Same.