Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
Poetry to me is prayer.
Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.
Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.