What is the main thing in love? To know and to hide. To know about the one you love and to hide that you love. At times the hiding (shame) overpowers the knowing (passion). The passion for the hidden — the passion for the revealed.
Freedom! A wanton slut on a profligate's breast!
I know wherever you are, there are poems.
The one that burned the hottest is the first to die.
A poet's marriage to his time is a forced marriage.
Service to one's time is a command of despair.
One should write only those books from whose absence one suffers. In short: the ones you want on your own desk.
I opened my veins. Unstoppably
I’m kissing you now — across