b.

You remember too much, my mother said to me recently. Why hold onto all that? And I said, / Where can I put it down?

In order for me to write poetry that isn't political, I must listen to the birds / and in order to hear the birds / the warplanes must be silent.

Again love, the limb-loosener, rattles me / bittersweet, irresistible, a crawling beast.

God never gave me a single usable passion, but did give me sharp teeth / and a strong jaw.

Didn’t Sappho say her guts clutched up like this? Before a face suddenly numinous, her eyes watered, knees melted. Did she lactate again, milk brought down by a girl’s kiss? It’s documented torrents are unloosed by such events as recently produced not the wish, but the need, to consume, in us, one pint of Maalox, one of Kaopectate. My eyes and groin are permanently swollen, I’m alternatingly brilliant and witless —and sleepless: bed is just a swamp to roll in. Although I’d cream my jeans touching your breast, sweetheart, it isn’t lust; it’s all the rest of what I want with you that scares me shitless.

"why not devour all that you are given? all that you have not been given? between a predator and its prey there is only hunger, and desire has no direction."

“Maybe our world will grow kinder eventually. Maybe the desire to make something beautiful / is the piece of God that is inside each of us.”

Love is when you suddenly wake up as a cannibal, and not just any old cannibal, or else wake up destined for devourment.

I’ve hoarded / your name in my mouth for months. My throat / is a beehive pitched in the river. Look! / Look how long this love can hold its breath.