In a dream you are never eighty.

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

But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.

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.

The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.

Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.

I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.