The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
Poetry to me is prayer.
Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
Poems aren't postcards to send home.
I've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by
Somebody who should have been born is gone.
A woman who writes feels too much.
I am younger each year at the first snow.
Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
It would be pleasant to be drunk.
I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.
Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
I will be steel! I will build a steel bridge over my need! I will build a bomb shelter over my heart! But my future is a secret. It is as shy as a mole.
God is only mocked by believers.
But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
Do you like me?” No answer. Silence bounced, fell off his tongue and sat between us and clogged my throat. It slaughtered my trust. It tore cigarettes out of my mouth. We exchanged blind words, and I did not cry, I did not beg, but blackness filled my ears, blackness lunged in my heart, and something that had been good, a sort of kindly oxygen, turned into a gas oven.
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