Poetry Is Language Surprised In The Act

I Have Walked Through Many Lives, Some Of Them My Own, And I Am Not Who I Was, Though Some Principle Of Being Abides, From Which I Struggle Not To Stray.

Darling, Do You Remember The Man You Married? Touch Me, Remind Me Who I Am.

What Makes The Engine Go? Desire, Desire, Desire.

In A Murderous Time/the Heart Breaks And Breaks/and Lives By Breaking.

Deftly They Opened The Brain Of A Child, And It Was Full Of Flying Dreams.