The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It’s as though I could fly.
I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.