I cannot walk an inch / without trying to walk to God.

We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!

Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.

O starry night, This is how I want to die

Even without wars, life is dangerous.

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?