Someone who does not run toward the allure of love walks a road where nothing lives. But this dove here senses the love hawk floating above, and waits, and will not be driven or scared to safety.

I am sunlight slicing the dark.

Break your pitcher against a rock. We don't need any longer to haul pieces of the ocean around.

Heart is a sea, language is the shore. Whatever is in a sea hits the shore.

If you find the mirror of the heart dull, the rust has not been cleared from its face.

In Winter the bare boughs that seem to sleep Work covertly, preparing for their Spring.

I do not know who lives here in my chest, or why the smile comes. I am not myself, more the bare green knob of a rose that lost every leaf and petal to the morning wind.