Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.

... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.

Poems aren't postcards to send home.

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

It is June. I am tired of being brave.

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

The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.