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The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream
The imperfect is our paradise.
Note that, in this bitterness, delight,
Since the imperfect is so hot in us,
Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.
Death is the Mother of Beauty
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
perhaps the truth depends on a walk around a lake
Trees Trees, proud standing people stretching fingertips to the sky, reaching, praying glorious attention, breathing light. strength shelter timeless confidence bending and firm comforting rooted chorus line dancing with the moon, the wind, the clouds framing bursts of stars tender rugged celebration absorbing and releasing life each holy branch holding the power of the Universe. There.
Thought tends to collect in pools.
Poetry must resist the intelligence almost successfully.
One reads poetry with one's nerves.
