From the shadow of domes in the city of domes,A snowflake, a blizzard of one, weightless, entered your roomAnd made its way to the arm of the chair where you, looking upFrom your book, saw it the moment it landed. That's allThere was to it.

Life should be moreThan the body’s weight working itself from room to room.

There is no happiness like mine.I have been eating poetry.

For soon the leaves,Having gone black, would fall, and the annulling snowWould pillow the walk, and we, with shovels in hand, would meet,Bow, and scrape the sidewalk clean. What else would there beThis late in the day for us but desire to make amendsAnd start again, the sun’s compassion as it disappears.

A poem is a place where the conditions of beyondness and withinness are made palpable, where to imagine is to feel what it is like to be. It allows us to have the life we are denied because we are too busy living. Even more paradoxically, a poem permits us to live in ourselves as if we were just out of reach of ourselves.

Time slips by; our sorrows do not turn into poems,And what is invisible stays that way.

Pain is filtered in a poem so that it becomes finally, in the end, pleasure.

Usually a life turned into a poem is misrepresented.

I feel that anything is possible in a poem.