Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.

For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.

Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin; it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.

I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.

You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going

She suffers according to the digits of my hate. I hear the filaments of alabaster. I would lie down with them and lift my madness off like a wig. I would lie outside in a room of wool and let the snow cover me. Paris white or flake white or argentine, all in the washbasin of my mouth, calling “Oh.” I am empty. I am witless. Death is here. There is no other settlement.

The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.