Emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea.

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

Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.

I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.

Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.

The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.

I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.