When I Lie Down To Love, Old

I Lay There Silently, Hoarding My Small Dignity. I Did Not Ask About The Gate Or The Closet. I Did Not Question The Bedtime Ritual Where, On The Cold Bathroom Tiles, I Was Spread Out Daily And Examined For Flaws. I Did Not Know That My Bones, Those Solids, Those Pieces Of Sculpture Would Not Splinter.

Put Your Mouthful Of Words Away And Come With Me To Watch The Lilies Open In Such A Field, Growing There Like Yachts, Slowly Steering Their Petals Without Nurses Or Clocks.

It's A Little Mad, But I Believe I Am Many People. When I Am Writing A Poem, I Feel I Am The Person Who Should Have Written It.

To Be Without God Is To Be A Snake / Who Wants To Swallow An Elephant.

I Am Not At Home In Myself. I Am My Own Stranger.