“(from: Age Sixty-nine)Often, lately, the night is a cold mawand stars the scattered white teeth of the gods, which spare none of us. At dawn I have birds, clearly divine messengers that I don't understandyet day by day feel the grace of their intentions.”

“(from: Age Sixty-nine)There is this circle I walkthat I have learned to love.I hope one day to be a spiralbut to the birds I'm a circle.”

“Only that day dawns to which we are awake. There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star.”

“The sky is deep, the sky is dark. The light of the stars is o damn stark/When I look up, I fill with fear, if all we have is what lies here, this lonely world, this troubled place, then cold dead stars and empty space...Well, I see no reason to persevere, no reason to laugh or shed a tear, no reason to sleep and none to wake/ No promises to keep and none to make. And so at night I still raise my eyes tos tudy the clear but mysterious skies that arch avove us, cold as stone. Are you there God? Are we alone?”

“Cold comradeship do stars provide.They light the closer, inner sideOf night's vast weight, which, chill and clear,Pulls on us like some puppeteer.Its unseen threads to heads and heartsAttached, it acts us through our parts,From birth's first cry to bent old age,Upon our distant, tiny stage.”

“On Sunday mornings, as the dawn burned into day, swarms of gulls descended on the uncollected trash, hovering and dropping in the cold clear light.”