I’ve been here before, dreaming myselfbackwards, among grappling hooks of light.True to the seasons, I’ve lived every wordspoken. Did I walk into someone’s nightmare?

Again I see you, But me I don't see!, The magical mirror in which I saw myself has been broken, And only a piece of me I see in each fatal fragment - Only a piece of you and me!...

I was the solitary plovera pencil for a wing-boneFrom the secret notesI must tiltupon the pressureexecute and adjust In us sea-air rhythm"We live by the urgent waveof the verse

Cansado,sobre todo,de estar siempre conmigo,de hallarme cada día,cuando termina el sueño,allí, donde me encuentre,con las mismas naricesy con las mismas piernas...

Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.

HOUSE Grow high. The devil can't find you. Grow deep. Buddha can't find you. Build a house and live there. Gourd creepers will climb over it, their flowers dazzling at midnight.

The townspeople took the prince for deadWhen he never returned with the dragon’s headWhen with her, he stayedShe thought he’d be too afraidBut he loved her too much instead.

No matter how you feel you have to actlike you are very popular with yourself;very relaxed and purposefulvery unconfusedand notlike you are walking through the sunshinesingingin chains.

Carcharadon carcharias. Six thousandpounds of muscle powering a hoopof butcher's knives. The only animalthat ate its weaker siblings in the womb.Immune from cancer. Constantly awake.

The Apache don't have a word for love," he said. "Know what they both say at the marriage? The squaw-taking ceremony?""Tell me.""Varlebena. It means forever. That's all they say.

so much of the world is plunged in darkness and chaos...So ring the bells that still can ringForget your perfect offeringThere is a crack in everythingThat’s how the light gets in.

Dear to me is sleep: still more, being made of stone,While pain and guilt still linger here below,Blindness and numbness--these please me alone;Then do not wake me, keep your voices low.

A Man Said to the UniverseA man said to the universe: “Sir, I exist!”“However,” replied the universe, “The fact has not created in me A sense of obligation.

So this was the reverse of dazzling Nauset.The flip of the coin - the flip of an ocean fallenDream-face down. And here, at my feet, in the suds,The other face, the real, staring upwards.

The element of craftsmanship in poetry is obscured by the fact that all men are taught to speak and most to read and write, while very few men are taught to draw or paint or write music.