Don’t bite till you know if it’s bread or stone.
O starry night, This is how I want to die.
I burn the way money burns.
Rats live on no evil star.
Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings.
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen...
God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
Even without wars, life is dangerous.
Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
All day I’ve built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.
God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.
Fee-fi-fo-fum – Now I’m borrowed. Now I’m numb.
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.
The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives.