As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.
The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.
And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren.
Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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.