If Your Way Of Life Is Writing,

To Be Running Breathlessly, But Not Yet Arrived, Is Itself Delightful, A Suspended Moment Of Living Hope.

Prowling The Meanings Of A Word, Prowling The History Of A Person, No Use Expecting A Flood Of Light. Human Words Have No Main Switch. But All Those Little Kidnaps In The Dark. And Then The Luminous, Big, Shivering, Discandied, Unrepentant, Barking Web Of Them That Hangs In Your Mind When You Turn Back To The Page You Were Trying To Translate.

A Man Moves Through Time. It Means Nothing Except That, Like A Harpoon, Once Thrown He Will Arrive.

Existence Will Not Stop Until It Gets To Beauty.

When They Made Love Geryon Liked To Touch In Slow Succession Each Of The Bones Of Herakles' Back As It Arched Away From Him Into Who Knows What Dark Dream Of Its Own, Running Both Hands All The Way Down From The Base Of The Neck To The End Of The Spine Which He Can Cause To Shiver Like A Root In The Rain.