A Flower Without A Stem,

Mineral Cactai, Quicksilver Lizards In The Adobe Walls, The Bird That Punctures Space, Thirst, Tedium, Clouds Of Dust, Impalpable Epiphanies Of Wind. The Pines Taught Me To Talk To Myself. In That Garden I Learnedto Send Myself Off. Later There Were No Gardens.

To Read A Poem Is To Hear It With Our Eyes; To Hear It Is To See It With Our Ears.

Distraction Is Our Habitual State. Not The Distraction Of The Person Who Withdraws From The World In Order To Shut Himself Up In The Secret And Ever-changing Land Of His Fantasy, But The Distraction Of The Person Who Is Always Outside Himself, Lost In The Trivial, Senseless, Turmoil Of Everyday Life.

The Purpose Of Poetry Is To Restore To Mankind The Possibility To Wonder.

Writers, You Know, Are The Beggars Of Western Society.