My mouth blooms like a cut.

I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.

I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.

It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious

I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.

Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.

Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.