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

Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.

I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.

Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.

It is June. I am tired of being brave.

the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.

The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is; the waves fold over each other; they are in love with themselves; sleeping in their own skin; and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.