Poetry to me is prayer.
Somebody who should have been born is gone.
It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.
Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.