There's a happiness, a joy in one soul, that's been buried alive in everyone and forgotten. It isn't your barroom joke or tender, intimate humor or affections of friendliness or big, bright pun. They're the surviving survivors of what happened when happiness was buried alive, when it no longer looked out of today's eyes, and doesn't even manifest when one of us dies, we just walk away from everything, alone with what's left of us, going on being human beings without being human, without that happiness.
Poets Eleven Poem
Between the page with the heart and the mind wrestling upon it, and the ear which later will receive those limbs of light as perfect harmony, there's a stillness whose volume speaks worlds of words defiant of measure, treasures of the unsayable, secrets of the ever-beginning enchantment and the never-ending gathering at the lips of the kiss of the poem.