Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.

Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.

I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.

I burn the way money burns.

Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.

I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.

I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.