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

In a dream you are never eighty.

Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.

Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.

Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.

Poetry to me is prayer.

I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.