The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
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.
Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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.