Out in the world, the child cries for the mother as the wound cries for salt as the lover cries for her unrequited lover

There is only one story: he loved her, then stopped loving her, while she did not stop loving him.

Handcuffed by time, I travel across this broad beautiful America– mesas, deserts, peaks with clouds caught

When we become truly ourselves, we… —Suzuki Sick of the self, the self—seducing self— with its games, its fears,

Living in a house near the Black Forest, without any clocks, she’s begun to listen to the walls.

A man so sick that the sexual soup cannot save him - the chicken soup of sex which cures everything: tossed mane of noodles,

There is a white wood house near… in whose garden the nightingale st… Though Keats is dead, the bird wh… returns with melodies, on easeful… A lock of hair the poet’s love rec…

Driving me away is easier than saying goodbye– kissing the air,

Because she wants to touch him, she moves away. Because she wants to talk to him, she keeps silent. Because she wants to kiss him,

Unable to bear the uncertainty of the future, we consulted seers, mediums, stock market gurus,

I try to keep falling in love if only to keep death at bay.

Chi vuol esser lieto, sia: di doman non c’e certezza. —Lorenzo di Medici In the poplars’ lengthening shadow… amid the rows of marigolds and ear…

You call me courageous, I who grew up gnawing on books, as some kids

I pass to the other side of the pa… —Pablo Neruda On the other side of the page where the last days go, where the lost poems go,

Goddess, I come to you my neck wreathed with rosebuds, my head filled with visions of inf… my palms open to your silver nails… my eyes open to your rays of illum…