Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.

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

Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.

I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.

We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!

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

The Witch's Life" When I was a child there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch. All day she peered from her second story window from behind the wrinkled curtains and sometimes she would open the window and yell: Get out of my life! She had hair like kelp and a voice like a boulder. I think of her sometimes now and wonder if I am becoming her.