“ Even this late it happens:the coming of love, the coming of light. ”
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.There is no happiness like mine.I have been eating poetry.
~ Mark Strand
Sometimes he did not know if he slept or just thought about sleep.
In a fieldI am the absenceof field.This isalways the case.Wherever I amI am what is missing.
These wrinkles are nothingThese gray hairs are nothing,This stomach which sagswith old food, these bruisedand swollen ankles, my darkening brain,they are nothing.I am the same boymy mother used to kiss.
