And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, "My need is more desperate!" and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.

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?

Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.

The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.

The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.

Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.

It would be pleasant to be drunk.