As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, "My need is more desperate!" and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
The joy that isn't shared dies young.
All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.