“Boast of QuietnessWritings of light assault the darkness, more prodigious than meteors.The tall unknowable city takes over the countryside.Sure of my life and death, I observe the ambitious and would like tounderstand them.Their day is greedy as a lariat in the air.Their night is a rest from the rage within steel, quick to attack.They speak of humanity.My humanity is in feeling we are all voices of that same poverty.They speak of homeland.My homeland is the rhythm of a guitar, a few portraits, an old sword,the willow grove's visible prayer as evening falls.Time is living me.More silent than my shadow, I pass through the loftily covetous multitude.They are indispensable, singular, worthy of tomorrow.My name is someone and anyone.I walk slowly, like one who comes from so far away he doesn't expect to arrive.”

“i walk slowly, like one who comes from so far away he doesn't expect to arrive.”

“Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another,Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.”

“As the lights fade to a distant glow, I look back toward the city and imagine, somewhere in all of those lives, a little girl who is a lot like me. Maybe she rides in a car thinking about someone living far away from these lights and people. Even though our lives are separated by so much I wonder if she imagines the world through eyes like mine.”

“Poets say science takes away from the beauty of the stars - mere globs of gas atoms. I too can see the stars on a desert night, and feel them. But do I see less or more? The vastness of the heavens stretches my imagination - stuck on this carousel my little eye can catch one - million - year - old light. A vast pattern - of which I am a part... What is the pattern, or the meaning, or the why? It does not do harm to the mystery to know a little about it. For far more marvelous is the truth than any artists of the past imagined it. Why do the poets of the present not speak of it? What men are poets who can speak of Jupiter if he were a man, but if he is an immense spinning sphere of methane and ammonia must be silent?”

“I don’t want to love him—this would be so much simpler if I didn’t. But I do.He’s funny, and passionate, and strong, and he believes in me more than I even believe in myself. When he looks at me, I feel like I could take on the whole world and come out standing tall. I like myself better when I’m with him, because of how he sees me. He makes me feel beautiful and powerful, like I’m the most important thing in the world, and I don’t know how to walk away from that. I don’t know how to walk away from him.”