I realise there's something incredibly honest about trees in winter, how they're experts at letting things go.

There's two kinds of women--those you write poems about and those you don't.

Even when I'm dead, I'll swim through the Earth, like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.

I want to rip off your logic and make passionate sense to you. I want to ride in the swing of your hips. My fingers will dig in you like quotation marks, blazing your limbs into parts of speech.

But one kiss levitates above all the others. The intersection of function and desire. The I do kiss. The I’ll love you through a brick wall kiss. Even when I’m dead, I’ll swim through the Earth, like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.

No rescue boat can save the touches I left bobbing in the wild ocean of your flesh, but if they cut open your heart, like the belly of a shark, dumped its contents on a table—would there be any trace of me?

I swallowed a hand grenade that never stops exploding.