The problem with memory is that is changes whatever it touches. It is never that accurate. As a result, I end up modifying and revising my own experiences. It's myth making.

Maybe being winged means being wounded by infinity.

A bruise, blue in the muscle, you impinge upon me. As bone hugs the ache home, so I'm vexed to love you, your body the shape of returns, your hair a torso of light, your heat I must have, your opening I'd eat, each moment of that soft-finned fruit, inverted fountain in which I don't see me.

In writing poetry, all of one's attention is focused on some inner voice.

While all bodies share the same fate, all voices do not.

A poem is like a score for the human voice.

Brimming. That's what it is, I want to get to a place where my sentences enact brimming.