Poetry is what happens when an anxiety meets a technique.
Life is like a cucumber. One minute it's in your hand, the next it's up you ass.
Truth disappears with the telling of it.
It's unthinkable not to love - you'd have a severe nervous breakdown. Or you'd have to be Philip Larkin.
I have been thinking about the girl I met last night in the mirror: dark on the marble-ivory white: glossy black hair: deep suspiring eyes in which one's glances sink because they are nervous, curious, turned to sexual curiosity.
Love joins and then divides. How else would we be growing?