- The imagination begins from what is
not what is not.
- A letter is always arriving, always
opening itself in my hand.
- In darknesses, all darknesses fall away
from the body.
- When the words of the dead are remembered,
lips move in the grave.
- Having seen the death angel early, I was meant
to mourn for life.
- With each silence, the angel
flies through the room.
- Lips at my ear: the angel is here.
- Ghosts speak out for rescue. Bereft,
I search and search.
- When the angel wakes, he calls me,
and I always obey,
sleeping then in his cold place.
- There was a pinhole where
I could see the whole
landscape of myself;
but I lost it, refusing
- I speak, I listen and seek over my life
like a bat, for the echoes of sound things.
- When I failed to cultivate a memory of objects –
pottery, spoons, the razor, measuring weights,
postage stamps, the coffee cup, the pen –
the metaphors of my life disappeared.
- I wish for what is never and it is infinite.
- You have asked me to estimate the numbers of
my lost feelings,
and I am grateful.
- To write is to contain, to hold
the true against the true.
- The visible wound distracts us from
the invisible bleeding.
- There are things that are not mysteries.
All words explain them.
- For each person born,
a fable of glass begins.
- The truth is action, it moves.
All these words are lies, and they remain.
- If you are a magician, unlock my life.
- My hand wears the glove
that writes these words.