Hit a tripwire of smell and memories explode all at once. A complex vision leaps out of the undergrowth.

Symbolic of life, hair bolts from our head[s]. Like the earth, it can be harvested, but it will rise again. We can change its color and texture when the mood strikes us, but in time it will return to its original form, just as Nature will in time turn our precisely laid-out cities into a weed-way.

I watched her face switch among the radio stations of memory

Couples are jigsaw puzzles that hang together by touching in just enough points.

History is an agreed-upon fiction.

Because poets feel what we're afraid to feel, venture where we're reluctant to go, we learn from their journeys without taking the same dramatic risks.

Love is like a batik created from many emotional colors, it is a fabric whose pattern and brightness may vary.