Books are carefully folded forests/void of autumn/bound from the sun

And when they dusted my mind for your fingerprints they found yours.

The purpose of life is to be defeated by greater and greater things.

Wilted or in bloom,taking or lending daylight,the world transitions.

Carry out your literary dream, no matter how unlikely it may seem...

Poetry [is] more necessary than ever as a fire to light our tongues.

I bleed myself to be your drink:Is not the blood of poets—ink?

When there's music in your soul, there's soul in your music.

I would not come in.I meant not even if asked,And I hadn't been.

I am that last, thatfinal thing, the bodyin a white sheet listening,

You see how I tryTo reach with wordsWhat matters mostAnd how I fail.

But for their cries,The herons would be lostAmidst the morning snow.

If you love me, Henry, you don’t love me in a way I understand.

when i speak to youi speak as thoughi am offering a rosein your hand.

All this timeI drank you like the cure when maybeyou were the poison.