Poetry

Whatever you have to say, leave the roots on, let them dangle. And the dirt. Just to make clear where they come from.

Last night, as I was sleeping, I dreamt - marvelous error! - that a spring was breaking out in my heart...

You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves...

I have lived on the lip of insanity, wanting to know reasons, knocking on a door. It opens. I’ve been knocking from the inside!

In a boat down a fast-running creek, it feels like trees on the bank are rushing by. What seems to be changing around us is rather the speed of our craft leaving this world.

The way of love is not a subtle argument. The door there is devastation.

Late, by myself, in the boat of myself, no light no land anywhere, cloudcover thick. I try to stay just above the surface, yet I’m already under and living within the ocean.

Be melting snow. Wash yourself of yourself.

Out beyond ideas of rightdoing and wrongdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.

When I am with you we stay up all night. When you’re not here, I can’t sleep. Praise God for these two insomnias! And the difference between them.