You might as well ask an artist to explain his art, or ask a poet to explain his poem. It defeats the purpose. The meaning is only clear thorough the search.

ink marks the page/where you execute your will like a doe announcing an/ox-stern mate with a single, bleary blink.

I do not write to you, but of you,/because the paper that we write on/is our perishable skin.

I will meet you on the nape of your neck one day, on the surface of intention, word becoming act.
We will breathe into each other the high mountain tales, where the snows come from, where the waters begin.”
-In the yellow time of pollen

One has to commit a painting,' said Degas,
'the way one commits a crime.

Don't ask me any questions. I've seen how things that seek their way find their void instead.