Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.
And I'll dance with you in Vienna, I'll be wearing a river's disguise. The hyacinth wild on my shoulder my mouth on the dew of your thighs. And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook, with the photographs there and the moss. And I'll yield to the flood of your beauty, my cheap violin and my cross.
... i didn't fall in love of course it's never up to you but she was walking back and forth and i was passing through