We Live In The Time Of The

So I Turn Once More To Those Who Sneer At This My City, And I Give Them Back The Sneer And Say To Them: Come And Show Me Another City With Lifted Head Singing So Proud To Be Alive And Coarse And Strong And Cunning.

Tell Me If The Lovers Are Losers... Tell Me If Any Get More Than The Lovers.

Poetry Is The Establishment Of A Metaphorical Link Between White Butterfly-wings And The Scraps Of Torn-up Love-letters.

Anger Is The Most Impotent Of Passions. It Effects Nothing It Goes About, And Hurts The One Who Is Possessed By It More Than The One Against Whom It Is Directed.

Poetry Is A Sky Dark With A Wild-duck Migration.