I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing, In my veins, in my bones I feel it,- The small water seeping upward, The tight grains parting at last. When sprouts break out, Slippery as fish, I quail, lean to beginnings, sheath-wet.

I wish I could find an event that meant as much as simple seeing.

Art is our defense against hysteria and death.

I came to love, I came into my own.

Love is not love until love's vulnerable.

What falls away is always. And is near.

I am overwhelmed by the beautiful disorder of poetry, the eternal virginity of words.