It's hard for me to grasp that I might somehow be my father's equal in any way.

Which is more puzzling, the existence of suffering or its frequent absence?

And the night smells like snow. Walking home for a moment you almost believe you could start again. And an intense love rushes to your heart, and hope. It’s unendurable, unendurable.

The road to Emmaus is this world.

There is only one heart in my body, have mercy on me.

I basked in you; I loved you, helplessly, with a boundless tongue-tied love. And death doesn't prevent me from loving you. Besides, in my opinion you aren't dead. (I know dead people, and you are not dead.)

The long silences need to be loved, perhaps more than the words which arrive to describe them in time.

We are created by being destroyed.

And the night smells like snow. Walking home for a moment you almost believe you could start again. And an intense love rushes to your heart, and hope. It’s unendurable, unendurable.

Poem in other words may or may not result from inspiration but must (in reader and author alike) produce it--