I stayed under the moon too long.I am silvered with lust.Dreams flick like minnows through my eyes.My voice is trees tossing in the wind.I loose myself like a flock of blackbirdsstorming into your face.My lightest touch leaves blue prints,bruises on your mind.Desire sandpapers your skinso thin I read the veins and arteriesmaps of routes I will traveltill I lodge in your spine.The night is our fur.We curl inside it licking.

Sleeping together is a euphemism for people, but tantamount to marriage with cats.

With my poems, I finally won even my mother. The longest wooing of my life.

We lie in each other's arms eyes shut and fingers open and all the colors of the world pass through our bodies like strings of fire.

I wrote to make sense out of all the contradictions I experienced and to deal with the pain and loss I was undergoing.

Too much self-regard has never struck me as dignified: trying to twist over my shoulder to view my own behind.

Memory in Greek mythology is the mother of the muses, and it is so for me. Both personal and societal memory move me strongly, and that is one of the sources of my writing.