You have me like a drawing, erased, coloured in, untitled, signed by your tongue.

I have piles of poetry books in the bathroom, on the stairs, everywhere. The only way to write poetry is to read it.

Better off dead than giving in; not taking what you want.

Every day is a gift with a child, no matter what problems you have.

Time hates love, wants love poor,/but love spins gold, gold, gold from straw.

How would you prepare to die on a perfect April evening?

It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.