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.

Memory is sweet. Even when it’s painful, memory is sweet.

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

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

Maybe being winged means being wounded by infinity.

People who read poetry have heard about the burning bush, but when you write poetry, you sit inside the burning bush.

Our bodies look solid, but they arent. Were like a fountain. A fountain of water looks solid, but you can put your fingers right through it. Our bodies look like things, but theres no thingness to them.