The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. - Anne Sexton

She suffers according to the digits
of my hate. I hear the filaments
of alabaster. I would lie down
with them and lift my madness
off like a wig. I would lie
outside in a room of wool
and let the snow cover me.
Paris white or flake white
or argentine, all in the washbasin
of my mouth, calling “Oh.”
I am empty. I am witless.
Death is here. There is no
other settlement.

the thing with October is, I think, it somehow gets in your very blood. Unapologetically. Almost ruthlessly.

God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.