In The Garden I Will

Woodcutter. Cut My Shadow From Me. Free Me From The Torment Of Being Without Fruit. Why Was I Born Among Mirrors? Day Goes Round And Round Me. The Night Copies Me In All Its Stars. I Want To Live Without My Reflection. And Then Let Me Dream That Ants And Thistledown Are My Leaves And My Parrots.

I Want To Be A Poet, From Head To Toe, Living And Dying By Poetry.

Seville Is A Tower Full Of Fine Archers.... Under The Arch Of The Sky, Across The Clear Plain, She Shoots The Constant Arrow Of Her River.

A Poet Must Be A Professor Of The Five Senses And Must Open Doors Among Them.

Green How I Want You Green. Green Wind. Green Branches.