Death may whiten in sun or out of it.

God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.

I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.

After all, we are nothing more or less than we choose to reveal.

I’ll never speak to God again.

You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.

But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defensless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get.