Poetry has just been a religion. Only a reason for living. Not a fact, not a rationale, not even a picture.

Poetry has been a fog, a world without glasses in which everything is vague. A world in which soft-edged people wander in and out, and can be spoken to softly. A world in which I was constantly bathed with humidity, and did not have to alternate between droughts and storms. A world of a few tears and no great sadness.

Sharp edges defined with the newest technology show me the coldness behind the bright purple smiles on your sweater. My vision faded naturally as I read—naturally and mercifully over the years. New words and less meaning. More, more words, twisted words, tragedies that solved nothing over the last few thousand years except to teach us to make more tragedy. And now you give me vision again. And now you burn me with sharp vision again.

Good night.
Goodnight!
Parting is...

Parting is the method in the madness of words, words, words. To stay means to hold back from going. What is my movement? Take off your glasses, and you can still see my movement, parting the door from the wall, leaving here, going there, running out because of what I spotted out the window.

The sorrow is as sweet as a Christmas clementine,
something I will taste again
until it is no longer a memory
or poetry,
but only, among oranges,
another shade of orange.