Poems aren't postcards to send home.

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

Emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea.

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

The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.

The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.

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.