being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions

... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.

sorrow is easier than guilt.

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

The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.

I cannot walk an inch / without trying to walk to God.