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?

It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.

Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.

The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.

I am a collection of dismantled almosts.

For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.

Emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea.