It is snowing and death bugs meas stubborn as insomnia.
It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
We were fair game but we have kept out of the cesspool. We are strong. We are the good ones. Do not discover us for we lie together all in green like pond weeds. Hold me, my young dear, hold me.
Some women marry houses.
Pain engraves a deeper memory.
Poetry led me by the hand out of madness.
Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
Death's in the good-bye.
He turns the key.Presto!It opens this book of odd taleswhich transform the Brothers Grimm.Transform?As if an enlarged paper clipcould be a piece of sculpture.(And it could.)
Live or die, but don't poison everything.
Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
I like you; your eyes are full of language."[Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]
Love your self's self where it lives.
But suicides have a special language.Like carpenters they want to know which tools.They never ask why build.Twice I have so simply declared myself,have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,have taken...
Fee-fi-fo-fum -Now I'm borrowed.Now I'm numb.
And what of the dead? They lie without shoesin the stone boats. They are more like stonethan the sea would be if it stopped. They refuseto be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.
You, Doctor Martin, walkfrom breakfast to madness. Late August,I speed through the antiseptic tunnelwhere the moving dead still talkof pushing their bones against the thrustof cure. And I am queen of...