"A dead language in the throat of a dead poet. Assassins only wait for the day of the feast. Cemeteries are only full of white beds."
"Poetry, for me, seeks that which is foundational, a negation of the difference between the word and the thing."
The second, "Mice in the Wardrobe of Solitude," closes with a gorgeous, terrifying image of the world as a refrigerator, which, when opened, gives off nothing: "but the odor / of the white / rotted by the ice."