I once began to ask around what constitutes a good poem. It felt petty, in a sense. A boy would need no help in deciding which girls he thinks are pretty.

The trouble with poetry is it's often written to the sound of a drum only the poet may hear; nonetheless, blessed are those poets who always manage to find unshakeable pleasure in their own works.

ink marks the page/where you execute your will like a doe announcing an/ox-stern mate with a single, bleary blink.

I do not write to you, but of you,/because the paper that we write on/is our perishable skin.

I will meet you on the nape of your neck one day, on the surface of intention, word becoming act.
We will breathe into each other the high mountain tales, where the snows come from, where the waters begin.”
-In the yellow time of pollen

If I knew what to do
I'd do more than write a song for you