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.

... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.

I’ll put it out there: I am scarred by the nostalgic indicipherability of my own desires; I an engulfed by the intimidating unknown, pushed through darkness and dragged down by the irretrievable past sweetness of my memories.

Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside

The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.

I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!

The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives