love wounds me with soft pillows with tender lips and fingers

Catch from the board of beauty/ Such careless crumbs as fall.

From the mind which thinks to die, let my soul sleep tonight.

life's not a paragraphAnd death i think is no parenthesis

Your thighs are appletrees. Your knees are a southern breeze.

Moonlight and high wind.Dark poplars toss, insinuate the sea.

In those days I used to talk to myself as if reciting poetry.

Free verse is like free love; it is a contradiction in terms.

And to 'scape stormy days, I choose an everlasting night.

since the thing perhaps isto eat flowers and not to be afraid

]sing to usthe one with violets in her lap]mostly]goes astray

Come windless invaderI am a carnival ofStars, a poem of blood.

Once upon a timeI fell in loveLost myselfAnd find another one.

Poets are shameless with their experiences: they exploit them.

There is poetry as soon as we realize that we possess nothing.