Somebody who should have been born is gone.

You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed; lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.

You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going

Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.

I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.

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.

But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.