I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.

I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.

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

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

Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.

You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going

When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.