Prose Is Walking; Poetry Is Flying

Second-hand Gloves Will Become Lovely Again, Their Memories Are What Give Them The Need For Other Hands. And The Desolation Of Lovers Is The Same: That Enormous Emptiness Carved Out Of Such Tiny Beings As We Are Asks To Be Filled; The Need For The New Love Is Faithfulness To The Old.

The First Step In The Journey Is To Lose Your Way.

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

The Bud Stands For All Things, Even For Those Things That Don't Flower

Kiss The Mouth Which Tells You, Here, Here Is The World. This Mouth. This Laughter. These Temple Bones.