Words
cut from stone.

I built the door before the house. Hinges first. Then the long wait for a wall to lean against. Some nights I am the door. Some nights I am the wait.

Carry your name like a tool — not a coat, not a flag. Sharpen it on what you fix. Speak less, finish more. The work will introduce you.

I beat the gold so thin it became another kind of breath. What is luxury, I asked the wind. The wind said: time you didn't owe.

The sea keeps no diary. It writes the same sentence against the same shore, until the shore agrees.