How body from spirit slowly does unwind, until we are pure spirit at the end.
The poet: would rather eat a heart than a hambone.
I wish I could find an event that meant as much as simple seeing.
I teach my sighs to lengthen into songs.
I can't go on flying apart just for those who want the benefit of a few verbal kicks. My God, do you know what poems like that cost? They're not written vicariously: they come out of actual suffering, real madness.
Wake the happy words.