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brave love, dreamnot of staunching such strict flame, but come,lean to my wound; burn on, burn on.

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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.

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I’ll never speak to God again.

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The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.

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I have stitched life into me like a rare organ

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This is newness: every little tawdryObstacle glass-wrapped and peculiar,Glinting and clinking in a saint's falsetto. Only youDon't know what to make o...more

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For me poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.

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I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss?Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?

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The tongues of hell are dull.

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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far so fast in such a small space; you've got to burn away all the peripherals.

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Nick and the CandlestickI am a miner. The light burns blue. Waxy stalactitesDrip and thicken, tearsThe earthen wombExudes from its dead boredom. Black...more

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The still watersWrap my lips,Eyes, nose and ears,A clearCellophane I cannot crack.

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Dying is an art.Like everything else,I do it exceptionally well.I do it so it feels like hell.I do it so it feels real.I guess you could say I have a ...more

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The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.

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The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,White as a knuckle and terribly upset.It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quietWith ...more