Poetry Is A Dividend From What You

A Man Should Not Love The Moon. An Ax Should Not Lose Weight In His Hand. His Garden Should Smell Of Rotting Apples, And Grow A Fair Amount Of Nettles.

You See How I Try To Reach With Words What Matters Most And How I Fail.

All Was Taken Away From You: White Dresses, Wings, Even Existence.

It's True That What Is Morbid Is Highly Valued Today, And So You May Think That I Am Only Joking Or That I've Devised Just One More Means Of Praising Art With The Help Of Irony.

When I Curse Fate, It's Not Me, But The Earth In Me.