Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year’s cupful and downward into a decade’s quart and downward into a lifetime’s ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman’s float.