So what can they tell us, the writers of dream books,the scholars of oneiric signs and omens, the doctors with couches for analyses- if anything fits, it's accidental, and for one reason only, that in...

Memories come to mind like excavated statuesthat have misplaced their heads.

When it comes, you'll be dreamingthat you don't need to breathe;that breathless silence isthe music of the dar

contemporary poetry is a kind of Reykjavik, a place where accessibility and intelligence have been fighting a Cold War by proxy for the last half-century.

I am not a mechanism, an assembly of various sections.and it is not because the mechanism is working wrongly, that I am ill.I am ill because of wounds to the soul, to the deep emotional self,and the...

In the east a bank of cloud rises up silently like dark bread.

They were wrong about the sun.It does not go down into the underworld at night.The sun leaves merelyand the underworld emerges.It can happen at any moment.It can happen in the morning,you in the...

Then there's the twoof us. This wordis far too short for us, it has onlyfour letters, too sparseto fill those deep barevacuums between the starsthat press on us with their deafness.It's not love we...

This world is not enough, but it will have to do. You can either hold on or let go.

with shrunken fingerswe ate our oranges and bread,shivering in the parked car;though we know we had neverbeen there before,we knew we had been there before.

Kill what you can't savewhat you can't eat throw outwhat you can't throw out buryWhat you can't bury give awaywhat you can't give away you must carry with you,it is always heavier than you thought.

A truth should exist,it should not be use

Words shouldn't be dirty or cleanBut definitely sweet,On the tongue, in the mind.

I have no words - alas! - to tellThe loveliness of loving well!

I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty.

The young must grow oldWhilst old ones grow older.And cowards will shrinkAs the bold grow bolder.Courage may blossom in quiet hearts,For who can tell where bravery starts?Truth is a song, oft lying...

someone's senta loving notein lines of returning geeseand as the moon fillsmy western chamberas petals danceover the flowing streamagain I think of youthe two of usliving a sadnessaparta hurt that...