A thing too perfect to be remembered:
stone beautiful only when wet.
* * *
Blinded by light or black cloth —
so many ways
not to see others suffer.
* * *
Too much longing:
it separates us
like scent from bread,
rust from iron.
* * *
From very far or very close —
the most resolute folds of the mountain are gentle.
* * *
As if putting arms into woolen coat sleeves,
we listen to the murmuring dead.
* * *
Any point of a circle is its start:
desire forgoing fulfillment to go on desiring.
* * *
In a room in which nothing
has happened,
sweet-scented tobacco.
* * *
The very old, hands curling into themselves, remember their parents.
* * *
Think assailable thoughts, or be lonely.