The humiliation I go through/when I think of my past/can only be described as grace./We are created by being destroyed.

I basked in you; I loved you, helplessly, with a boundless tongue-tied love. And death doesn't prevent me from loving you. Besides, in my opinion you aren't dead. (I know dead people, and you are not dead.)

This is no occupation for an adult who can look other adults in the eye, carry his own weight, and count himself one of them.

Should each individual snowflake be held accountable for the avalanche?

Poem in other words may or may not result from inspiration but must (in reader and author alike) produce it--

The long silences need to be loved, perhaps more than the words which arrive to describe them in time.

I believe one day the distance between myself and God will / disappear.