If I actually had a horse I’d take him to the river and if the horse did not wish to move, to go to the river I would bring the river to my horse.
Writing is like catching a bird with your own two delicate hands and releasing it when the ink dries.
Snow owl, snow owl, have you any answers? My beloved and her lover are Magritte dancers or rather shod now in an Yves Klein monoglot. Snow owl, snow owl, have I wasted all my chances? But snow owl doesn’t answer, or he answers, No.
My red-eyed baby bird’s gone dancing Dancing With another man So I am at the loom Making her a shawl.
Today I performed a small ritual, which essentially was returning a golden piece of me back to nature, for Mother Nature, and she thanked me – I kid you not – she thanked me a few minutes later with a baby robin, who danced around me for five minutes, and looked at me as though […]
Three wood pigeons sitting on an antenna. I am in the roof of the house. My ceiling is a V. A poet needs a window. You write, because of the light. Hope you are enjoying this, the first day of July. That I was born 41 one years ago today is my mother’s achievement, rather […]