God owns heaven but He craves the earth.

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.

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

I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!

Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?

Mood can be as important as sense.

I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.