“ Pain is filtered in a poem so that it becomes finally, in the end, pleasure. ”
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.There is no happiness like mine.I have been eating poetry.
~ Mark Strand
Even this late it happens:the coming of love, the coming of light.
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.
