Poems aren't postcards to send home.

Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.

I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.

The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.

I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.

It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious

being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions