I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.

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

I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.

It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious

Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.

Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.

The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.