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Poetry

In wisdom hunger lies.

On black days, dress in black.

Autumn is the echo of Winter.

The name of the river’s curve is Leander.

Take your cup from the tulip tree, your plate from the size of a spider.

Rejoice! There is no choice in matter.

If you would arrive, first leave. That is how gifts come.

What I understood I do not understand.

Minerva’s hip weaves a red hand.

What is your name? is the first question. What is mine, the last.

The leaf is a cloud but the cloud is not a leaf.

§

No book has been written that wasn’t written for the likes of me.

The worm whose hearts have burst upon the path beside the river from the rain, that life is my responsibility and my decision.

The garter snake ignores the door.

The seed lives far from the fruit.

If you would suckle the will, invent God. If you would be unto God, invent Death.

Yellow costs more.

Cloth is not a cloak.

If you look away while shaking a hand, the world will see you.

Leave the boxes in the attic.

Ted the fields where I lie agley.

§

What the wall is, is paint.

Beauty pours out; Truth is poured.

The Poet never suffered so much, as when he heard the nightingale’s jugging.

At midnight, the hornworm does his reading.

Pieces of time are measured, but Time lives between the stars.

The interval is one note shy of the chord.

I was never so much, as when I was careless of this day.

The soul was never analyzed.

Stop or go, is the same motion.

A man with my name is not a brother; but you are.


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