An Excerpt from Everyday Seven Minutes, my book in progress:

I glide miraculous through this air that could be the air rushing off the peaked mountains in your picture, or the red and yellow fire of autumn in the fields of that other picture, or the rusted boat in Honduras. I glide miraculous through words and worlds and who needs travel when you've got a pen. I could be Zen, I could be back then going everywhere I should have gone before becoming a mother. But I am this other creature, this other human of inhuman remains what maintains stability in the frothy light of dusk and bedtime, you don't even know what's mine as you drive this time to my house. I am miraculous as I glide, and slide, and love the feeling of you inside me, how could it be, a poet finds something so divine outside herself, she can't help herself, she just wants to write and be heard and be understood, no matter what's good, no matter my mood, or who or what or where. You like hardware, and we write a poem about it, and you are genius in your simplicity, so simple, no duplicity, hard at work making wood, making words, making poems, who could have known? I'd have a naked man on my couch this evening. Do I dare, do I dare? How could I be so bold? Don't I do as I'm told? Writing. Free. So free to be me. To look at this man asleep and wonder if he really knows me. Or does he really want to.