As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.

The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.

Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.

The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.

Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.

Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin; it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.

life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.