The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope
sorrow is easier than guilt.
The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin; it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.