My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.

As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.

God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.

I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year’s cupful and downward into a decade’s quart and downward into a lifetime’s ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman’s float.

I am a collection of dismantled almosts.

A woman / who loves a woman / is forever young.

Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings