I Inhabit The Wax Image Of Myself,

And I Am Aware Of My Heart: It Opens And Closes Its Bowl Of Red Blooms Out Of Sheer Love Of Me.

And I A Smiling Woman. I Am Only Thirty. And Like The Cat I Have Nine Times To Die.

It Won't Happen Yet, Ellen Mused, Mashing Cooked Carrots For Jill's Lunch. Breakups Seldom Do. It Will Unfold Slowly, One Little Tell-tale Symptom After Another Like Some Awful, Hellish Flower.

I've Eaten A Bag Of Green Apples. Boarded The Train, There's No Getting Off

I Took A Deep Breath And Listened To The Old Bray Of My Heart. I Am. I Am. I Am.