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

Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.

As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.

Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.

... man is eating the earth up like a candy bar.

It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.

I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.