More on: Poetry

He feels such an urge to make things mean, / including his mood. He’s had that longing, / drunk or sober, all his life.

Earth stands / on end, listening. / The acid sun turns on / limes green

As usual Tempest’s strands were many. In conversation she was like a fisherman with a number of lines which she was constantly checking, to see if some unlucky bullhead or catfish might have gone for the bait.

The words can suddenly turn to vapor or stones. They have a way of wriggling out of our grasp just when we thought to touch them. This can happen to the wise as well as to the foolish.

This evil that I feel, that I taste, that makes the roads slick, is there no end, no fruition to it? It comes from somewhere, sufficient to find out where.

The words can suddenly turn to vapor or stones. They have a way of wriggling out of our grasp just when we thought to touch them. This can happen to the wise as well as to the foolish.

And because I’m a taker by nature, / I am suspicious, exhausted, on guard / against tax refunds, friendships, erasures

Sometimes I wish God / would have loved the world less and kept his son.

The dog / rests her head on my knee. A person is not like a god. / A person is not like a dog.

from where I was broken I could not flee.