The hour between night and day. The hour between toss and turn. The hour of thirty-year-olds. The hour swept clean for roosters' crowing. The hour when the earth takes back its warm embrace. The hour...

When they said he didn't exist, he couldn't die of grief, so he had to be born. He's already out there living somewhere; he blinks his little eyes and grows.

I let myself be invented, modeled on my own reflection in his eyes. I dance, dance, dance in the stir of sudden wings. The

They'll reenter their lives' cages, where love's tiger sometimes rages, but the beast's too tame to bite. We'll

The track's all yours. We won't get in your way: by then we will have set off chasing ourselves rather than you.

So poets keep on trying, and sooner or later the consecutive results of their self-dissatisfaction are clipped together with a giant paperclip by literary historians and called their oeuvres.

Eve from the rib, Venus from foam,...

Funny little thing. How could she know that even despair can work for you if you're lucky enough to outlive it. I'd

Merciless song, you leave me with my lone, nonconvertible, unmetamorphic body: I'm one-time-only to the marrow of my bones. Four A.M. The hour between night and day. The hour between toss and turn....

How many, after a shorter or longer life {if they still see a difference}, good, because it's beginning, bad, because it's over {if they don't prefer the reverse}

Nothing can ever happen twice. In consequence, the sorry fact is that we arrive here improvised and leave without the chance to practice. Even

But in the language of poetry, where every word is weighed, nothing is usual or normal. Not a single stone and not a single cloud above it.

But any knowledge that doesn't lead to new questions quickly dies out: it fails to maintain the temperature required for sustaining life.

My choices are rejections, since there is no other way,but what I reject is more numerous,denser, more demanding than before.A little poem, a sigh, at the cost of indescribable loss.

No day copies yesterday,no two nights will teach what bliss isin precisely the same way,with precisely the same kisses.

When I pronounce the word Future,the first syllable already belongs to the past.When I pronounce the word Silence,I destroy it.