What Is This Enigmatic Impulse

The Child Who Dwells Inside Us Trusts That There Are Wise Men Somewhere Who Know The Truth.

The Partition Separating Life From Death Is So Tenuous. The Unbelievable Fragility Of Our Organism Suggests A Vision On A Screen: A Kind Of Mist Condenses Itself Into A Human Shape, Lasts A Moment And Scatters.

The History Of My Stupidity Would Fill Many Volumes.

There Was A Time When Only Wise Books Were Read Helping Us To Bear Our Pain And Misery. This, After All, Is Not Quite The Same As Leafing Through A Thousand Works Fresh From Psychiatric Clinics. And Yet The World Is Different From What It Seems To Be And We Are Other Than How We See Ourselves In Our Ravings.

The Purpose Of Poetry Is To Remind Us How Difficult It Is To Remain Just One Person, For Our House Is Open, There Are No Keys In The Doors, And Invisible Guests Come In And Out At Will.