God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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.
I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
My mouth blooms like a cut.
Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.
Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.