“Your eyelashes will write on my heartthe poem that could never come from the pen of a poet.”

“A pen went scribbling along. When it tried to write love, it broke.”

“WONDER WITHOUT WILLPOWER Love’s way becomes a pen sometimes writing g-sounds like gold or r-soundslike tomorrow in different calligraphystyles sliding by, darkening the paperNow it’s held upside down, now besidethe head, now down and on to somethingelse, figuring. One sentence savesan illustrious man from disaster, butfame does not matter to the split tongueof a pen. Hippocrates knows how the curemust go. His pen does not. This oneI am calling pen, or sometimes flag,has no mind. You, the pen, are most sanelyinsane. You cannot be spoken of rationally.Opposites are drawn into your presence butnot to be resolved. You are not wholeor ever complete. You are the wonderwithout willpower going where you want.”

“Since Love has made ruins of my heartThe sun must come and illumine them.Such generosity has broken me with shame.”

“In your light I learn how to love. In your beauty, how to make poems. You dance inside my chest where no-one sees you, but sometimes I do, and that sight becomes this art.”

“All day I think about it, then at night I say it.Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?I have no idea.My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that,and I intend to end up there. Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?I cannot stop asking.If I could taste one sip of an answer,I could break out of this prison for drunks.I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way.Whoever brought me here, will have to take me home.”

“Every fragile beauty, every perfect forgotten sentence,you grieve their going away, but that is not how it is.Where they come from never goes dry.It is an always flowing spring.”