Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly..

I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don't they? They slide into the ear of a….

It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious.

life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack..

The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives.

...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full..

I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost co….

I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not..

Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would kee….

Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, h….

Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be….

I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread..

O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave..

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..

Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals wi….

To be without God is to be a snake / who wants to swallow an elephant..

This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star..

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..

The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit..

I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter..

I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair..