We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either; I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.
Somebody sees me, and I see myself through them. Then it's all gone, the whole world falls apart.
I'm in pain because the day is ending and somehow I am never healing.
Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It's as though I could fly.
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.
Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
How are you? How is your wonderful bathroom? How are the books you read and the things you think? Your dogs and their lives? The weather? Your feelings?
The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.
How you choose to lose yourself matters. Trust me, it's all in the ‘how'. It matters a lot.
Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
Let me hold your heart like a flower lest it bloom and collapse.
It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious.
I am unbalanced — but I am not mad with snow. I am mad the way young girls are mad, with an offering, an offering… I burn the way money burns.
To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
Unless the Lord keepeth the city, the watchman guardeth in vain.
That's what I do: I make coffee and occasionally succumb to suicidal nihilism. But you shouldn't worry — poetry is still first. Cigarettes and alcohol follow.
The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
I'm lost. And it's my own fault. It's about time I figured out that I can't ask people to keep me found.
I never seemed to like the spring for what it was; I always loved it for what it might have been. In the head. In the heart of hearts. It is in my ability, I think, to love something fully only if I am naturally, compulsively, irrationally drawn to it.
All I wanted was a little piece of life, to be married, to have children. [...] I was trying my damnedest to lead a conventional life, for that was how I was brought up, and it was what my husband wanted of me. But one can't build little white picket fences to keep the nightmares out.
The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives.
Sometimes I feel like another creature, hardly a woman. I can't be a modern woman. I'm a Victorian teenager–at heart.
Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.