And I never believed that the multitude / of dreams and many words were vain.

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.

A door jumps out from shadows, then jumps away. This is what I've come to find: the back door, unlatched. Tooled by insular wind, it slams and slams without meaning to and without meaning.

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

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

Every time you write a poem it’s apocalyptic. You’re revealing who you really are to yourself.

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