nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands-excerpt of #35 from "100 Selected Poems

when man determined to destroy himself he picked the was of shall and finding only why smashed it into because

since the thing perhaps isto eat flowers and not to be afraid

love is a deeper seasonthan reason;my sweet one

Humanity i love you because youare perpetually putting the secret oflife in your pants and forgettingit's there and sitting downon itand because you areforever making poems in the lapof death Humanityi hate you

You have played, (I think) And broke the toys you were fondest of, And are a little tired now; Tired of things that break, and— Just tired. So am I.

hate blows a bubble of despair intohugeness world system universe and bang-fear buries a tomorrow under woeand up comes yesterday most green and young

You have played,(I think)And broke the toys you were fondest of,And are a little tired now;Tired of things that break, and—Just tired.So am I.But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—Open to me!For I will show you the places Nobody knows,And, if you like,The perfect places of Sleep.

for every mile the feet gothe heart goes nine