...there is a myth called objective reality - we think an impersonal world exists apart from us - it doesn't - it needs us to be ...
...how many writers still dare compare a woman to Nature, like Campion? - there is a garden in her face - how lovely...
...dark furrow lines grid the snow, punctuated by orange abacus beads of pumpkins - now the crows own the field...
...you can be talented as a wolf is breathtakingly fierce...silver and gray, like smoke in the trees - but what do you do with terrible beauty?...
...my dreams are tangled in images of stars and clouds and firelight - we go camping at night - it's my lucid dream of being with you...
... paint in blue and black...sometimes gray - the colors of night - occasionally I surprise you with a mustard yellow, but then, I am a poet ...
...you need to travel to see the ocean - I don't need the ocean - I have the sky...
...I'm not afraid of the opinions of others - but of being needed and coming up short ...
...there's something magical about a mask, but I have never worn one - I want you to see my pain and know how your love affects me...
...I see more pathology in others than I did ten years ago - the older I get, the more insane people seem...
you cross the field in the snow leaving tracks in perfect whiteness ...disturbing my placid universe...marking the landscape within me ...
...consider yourself a functional character in someone else's novel - a background character - a person on the street - that's the perspective ...
...you've lost perspective? Well, get it back - God alone has the third person point of view in this life ...
...some of the best love poems have been written by monks and nuns...
...what else would a poet priest do on an endless night, but write of love?...
...a bard's down-to-earth love: My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red and when she walks, treads on the ground...
...I guess you're right - I am a priest - I offer sacrifices - so take this line, I want you to have something of mine...
...the wind hums low with sweet exultation, sings its lullaby, while you sleep ...
...I pluck every day from my sweater or chair, red hairs...strands of significance, traces of you in my life ...
...the wet brush of snowflakes was like your kisses everywhere ...
...don't you realize a flawless profile means nothing when a mere smile drives me to desperation? Don't you covet that power?..
