To be without God is to be a snake / who wants to swallow an elephant.
I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.
I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.