I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
The body is a damn hard thing to kill.
Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...
Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.
Let there be a heaven so that man may outlive his grasses.
I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.
Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
My safe, safe psychosis is broken. It was hard. It was made of stone. It covered my face like a mask. But it has cracked.
Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year’s cupful and downward into a decade’s quart and downward into a lifetime’s ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman’s float.
I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
I tied down time with a rope but it came back. Then I put my head in a death bowl and my eyes shut up like clams. They didn't come back.
For forty days, for forty nights Jesus put one foot in front of the other and the man he carried, if it was a man, became heavier and heavier.
To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?
When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
I said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still.
being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
I have a black look I do not like. It is a mask I try on. I migrate toward it and its frog sits on my lips and defecates.
The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
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