Passports are passports. The Atlantic is a wilderness of barbed walls brooking no windows, its door of deafening steel. Waiting Laughters (1990)
My song is space beyond wails, beyond walls, beyond insular hieroglyphs, which crave the crest of printed waves. Waiting Laughters (1990)
And seasons which wax so loud with the eloquence of the sword, arrogant thrusts and chronictes of desperate gorings Waiting Laughters (1990)
Waiting, still waiting, like the brown fable of rainless regions, the sun’s stony victory in the wilderness of fleeing dust Waiting Laughters (1990)
I pluck these words from the lips of the wind. Ripe like a pendulous pledge; Laughter’s parable explodes in the groin. Of waking storms. Clamorous with a covenant of wizened seeds. Waiting Laughters (1990)