Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.
O starry night, This is how I want to die
Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin; it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
Poems aren't postcards to send home.
Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.