The Soul Exceeds Its Circumstances.

The Purpose Of Poetry Is To Remind Us How Difficult It Is To Remain Just One Person, For Our House Is Open, There Are No Keys In The Doors, And Invisible Guests Come In And Out At Will.

What Is This Enigmatic Impulse That Does Not Allow One To Settle Down In The Achieved, The Finished? I Think It Is A Quest For Reality.

A Day So Happy. Fog Lifted Early. I Worked In The Garden. Hummingbirds Were Stopping Over Honeysuckle Flowers. There Was No Thing On Earth I Wanted To Possess. I Know No One Worth My Envying Him.

The Partition Separating Life From Death Is So Tenuous. The Unbelievable Fragility Of Our Organism Suggests A Vision On A Screen: A Kind Of Mist Condenses Itself Into A Human Shape, Lasts A Moment And Scatters.

I Think That I Am Here, On This Earth, To Present A Report On It, But To Whom I Don't Know. As If I Were Sent So That Whatever Takes Place Has Meaning Because It Changes Into Memory.