You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed; lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.

I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.

Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.

I am a collection of dismantled almosts.

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 beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.

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