I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.

For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.

One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.

The body is a damn hard thing to kill.

Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.

I have been cut in two.

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?