sorrow is easier than guilt.

Today life opened inside me like an egg.

Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.

Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.

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

Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.

I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.