The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
My mouth blooms like a cut.
The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.
I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?