I, in my brand new body, which was not a woman's yet, told the stars my questions and thought God could really see the heat and the painted light, el….

Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane..

I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money..

Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole..

And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of….

Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourse….

Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a….

Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen..

... man is eating the earth up like a candy bar..

Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?.

Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery..

Poems aren't postcards to send home..

unless I can shake myself free of my dog, my flag, of my desk, my mind, I find life a bit of a drag. Not always, mind you. Usually I'm like my frying….

They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them..

Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them ….

To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love..

Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp..

Bless all useful objects, the spoons made of bone, the mattress I cook my dreams upon, the typewriter that is my church with an altar of keys always ….

The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself..

I said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still..

With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made..