Life pulls softly inside your bindings. The pod glows - dear stench.
Words bounce. Words, if you let them, will do what they want to do and what they have to do.
Each night about this time he puts on sadness like a garment and goes on writing.
I never had much education in English poetry as such.
It is easier to tell a story of how people wound one another than of what binds them together.
Men know almost nothing about desire, they think it has to do with sexual activity or can be discharged that way. But sex is a substitute, like money or language. Sometimes I just want to stop seeing.