Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.
I have been cut in two.
Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don’t always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I’m hung up on it.
My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed; lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
Some women marry houses. It’s another kind of skin; it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
Death’s in the good-bye.
Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
I’m hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.
The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that’s saying a lot.
I grow old on my bitterness.
I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
All who love have lied.
I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
We are all writing God’s poem.
Daylight is nobody’s friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
I am younger each year at the first snow.
The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.