I Don't Think I Write Well -

All The Unhurried Day / Your Mind Lay Open Like A Drawer Of Knives.

My Mother, Who Hates Thunderstorms, Holds Up Each Summer Day And Shakes It Out Suspiciously, Lest Swarms Of Grape-dark Clouds Are Lurking There.

And The Case Of Butterflies So Rich It Looks As If All Summer Settled There And Died.

The Chromatic Scale Is What You Use To Give The Effect Of Drinking A Quinine Martini And Having An Enema Simultaneously.

It Becomes Still More Difficult To Find
words At Once True And Kind,
or Not Untrue And Not Unkind.