When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind
And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
True. There is a beautiful Jesus. He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef. How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in! How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes! But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.