For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.

Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.

In a dream you are never eighty.

I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!

Rats live on no evil star

Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind

It is June. I am tired of being brave.