I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.

Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.

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

Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.

Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.

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

The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.