I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.

It would be pleasant to be drunk.

And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope

The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.

Poetry to me is prayer.

It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.

Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.