More on: poetry

And there’s my mother, trembling for the safety of her kids, saying something at the looming man, trying to reason where there’s no room for reason.

The sting took her away, past the moon, and she was nowa nuqta and now a vowel.

I was fire from which air is withheld, a charged element.

The God who risked appearing in the flesh is the same God who leaves it to artists to bear witness.

If one comes to you saying ‘God said’ or ‘God speaks to me in secret,’ tread upon such words as a moth treads possible prey.

I want a little mystery. I don’t want to hear the obvious stated, even if I agree. I want to be awed.

Everywhere on my stroll among these rolling hills this morning, I see nude young men. I’d say they are naked as well. Many are undressed. Quite a few have no clothes on.

The guards can never leave the House of Correction because they work there but I can leave quick as I can dream. I close my eyes and hear singing again.

I could never have abandoned you if I hadn’t abandoned myself.

I hear, though, how torn he is: pulled toward something that seems to shame him. I think he half hates himself, and—like many men—he turns self-hatred into the hatred of others, especially women.