The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.

I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.

The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.

A woman / who loves a woman / is forever young.

And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, "My need is more desperate!" and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.

The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.

The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.