What, What Am I To Do With

Life Must Be Aromatic. There Must Be Scent, Somehow There Must Be Some.

When I Start Writing A Poem, I Don't Think About Models Or About What Anybody Else In The World Has Done.

Books Are Meat And Medicine And Flame And Flight And Flower Steel, Stitch, Cloud And Clout, And Drumbeats On The Air.

Even If You Are Not Ready For Day It Cannot Always Be Night.

At A Certain Moment In Social Proceedings, I Am On Fire To Leave: I Have A Leaving-fit.