In Our Eyes The Roads Are Endless.

I Put My Head Out Of My Window And See How Much The Wind’s Knife Wants To Slice It Off. On This Unseen Guillotine, I’ve Placed The Eyeless Head Of All My Desires.

The Moon Carries The Masks Of Meningitis Into Bedrooms, Fills The Wombs Of Pregnant Women With Cold Water And, As Soon As I'm Not Careful, Throws Handfuls Of Grass On My Shoulders.

Seville Is A Tower Full Of Fine Archers.... Under The Arch Of The Sky, Across The Clear Plain, She Shoots The Constant Arrow Of Her River.

My Poetry Is A Game. My Life Is A Game. But I Am Not A Game.

At The Heart Of All Great Art Is An Essential Melancholy.