I want to read every book that’s writtenhear every song that was sungI want to gaze at every cloudand hold the zing of each fruit on my tongue.

poetry. i am not writing it.(make way for me please)it is my skin. dripping with light.

i writebecauseit is the only wayi can reach you.

the intensityin your eyesburns my penas i write.

A single poem, alonecan turn tidesscatter galaxiesand burst forth with riversfrom paradise.

This winter, there will be no voices, no glimpses, no arms.only the fabric of poetry, to keep me warm.

when i write of you, my deari am holding youin the most exquisiteways.

I write because there are things in me that cannot die.

You should be more carefulwhen you move, my dearwhat with you...spilling moonlightinto my poem, with a mereflick of your hand.