Love your self's self where it lives.

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

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

Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren

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.

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.

Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.