I am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.
Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It’s as though I could fly.
At six I lived in a graveyard full of dolls, avoiding myself, my body, the suspect in its grotesque house.
I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.