Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.
The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet.
O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
Take a woman talking, purging herself with rhymes, drumming words out like a typewriter, planting words in you like grass seed. You'll move off.
I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.
Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
you see, we live in a cold climate and are not permitted to kiss on the street so I made up a song that wasn't true. I made up a song called Marriage.
Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
Our checks are pale. Our wallets are invalids. Past due, past due, is what our bills are saying and yet we kiss in every corner, scuffing the dust and the cat. Love rises like bread as we go bust.
Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, "My need is more desperate!" and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
Jewels! Today each twig is important, each ring, each infection, each form is all that the gods must have meant.
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