“Lost, is it, buried? One more missing piece?But nothing's lost. Or else: all is translationAnd every bit of us is lost in it(Or found — I wander through the ruin of SNow and then, wondering at the peacefulness)And in that loss a self-effacing tree,Color of context, imperceptiblyRustling with its angel, turns the wasteTo shade and fiber, milk and memory.”

“The day is breaking someone else's heart.”

“Beneath my incredulity All at once is flowingJoy, the flash of the unbaited hook --Yes, yes, it fits, it's right, it had to be!Intuition weightless and ongoing Like stanzas in a bookOr golden scales in the melodic brook --”

“Nor do I try to keep a garden, onlyAn avocado in a glass of water --Roots pallid, gemmed with air. And later,When the small gilt leaves have grownFleshy and green, I let them die, yes, yes,And start another. I am earth's no less.”

“The eggshell of appearance split.”

“Be one on whom nothing is lost.”

“I, however, like black. It is a color that makes me comfortable and the color with which I have the most experience. In the darkest darkness, all is black. In the deepest hole, all is black. In the terror of my Addicted mind, all is black. In the empty periods of my lost memory, all is black. I like black, goddammit, and I am going to give it its due.”