Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.

They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.

Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.

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

The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.

Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.

Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.