Death's in the good-bye.

Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.

As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.

Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.

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.

In a letter (no matter how quickly it is written or honestly or freely or lovingly) it is more possible to be loving and lovable, more possible to reach out and to take in ... I feel I have somehow deceived you into thinking this is really a human relationship. It is a letter relationship between humans.

The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.