It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.

One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.

...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.

Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside

I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?

The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.