She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.

Poems aren't postcards to send home.

I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.

Poetry to me is prayer.

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

Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings

Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.