I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.

I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?

The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives

It is June. I am tired of being brave.

I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.

The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.

... man is eating the earth up like a candy bar.