Poetry Is An Orphan Of Silence. The

Only Brooms Know The Devil Still Exists, That The Snow Grows Whiter After A Crow Has Flown Over It

The Poem I Want To Write Is Impossible. A Stone That Floats.

One Writes Because One Has Been Touched By The Yearning For And The Despair Of Ever Touching The Other.

The Truth Is Dark Under Your Eyelids.

Wanted: A Needle Swift Enough To Sew This Poem Into A Blanket.