All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.
Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
A woman / who loves a woman / is forever young.
Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?
Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
To love another is somethinglike prayer and it can't be planned, you just fallinto its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime.
Poetry to me is prayer.
I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
I would like to bury all the hating eyes under the sand somewhere.
In a dream you are never eighty.
When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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