The First Step In The Journey Is

To Me, Poetry Is Somebody Standing Up, So To Speak, And Saying, With As Little Concealment As Possible, What It Is For Him Or Her To Be On Earth At This Moment

I Have Always Intended To Live Forever; But Not Until Now, To Live Now.

I Will Find That Special Person Who Is Wrong For Me In Just The Right Way.

Second-hand Gloves Will Become Lovely Again, Their Memories Are What Give Them The Need For Other Hands. And The Desolation Of Lovers Is The Same: That Enormous Emptiness Carved Out Of Such Tiny Beings As We Are Asks To Be Filled; The Need For The New Love Is Faithfulness To The Old.

Is There A Mechanism Of Death, That So Mutilates Existence No One, Gets Over It Not Even The Dead?