[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.

Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin; it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.

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

Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside

The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is; the waves fold over each other; they are in love with themselves; sleeping in their own skin; and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.

And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, "My need is more desperate!" and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.