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 am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.

Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings

being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions

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.

One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is "Whatever you do, don't be boring."

Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.