Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.

Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.

I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.

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

Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.

Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.

One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.