The History Of My Stupidity Would Fill

A Man Should Not Love The Moon. An Ax Should Not Lose Weight In His Hand. His Garden Should Smell Of Rotting Apples, And Grow A Fair Amount Of Nettles.

When I Die, I Will See The Lining Of The World. The Other Side, Beyond Bird, Mountain, Sunset.

Irony Is The Glory Of Slaves.

Leaves Glowing In The Sun, Zealous Hum Of Bumblebees, From Afar, From Somewhere Beyond The River, Echoes Of Lingering Voices And The Unhurried Sounds Of A Hammer Gave Joy Not Only To Me. Before The Five Senses Were Opened, And Earlier Than Any Beginning They Waited, Ready, For All Those Who Would Call Themselves Mortals, So That They Might Praise, As I Do, Life, That Is, Happiness.

The Purpose Of Poetry Is To Remind Us / How Difficult It Is To Remain Just One Person.