I Leave You, Home, When I'm Ripped

And Tonight Our Skin, Our Bones, That Have Survived Our Fathers, Will Meet, Delicate In The Hold, Fastened Together In An Intricate Lock. Then One Of Us Will Shout, "my Need Is More Desperate!" And I Will Eat You Slowly With Kisses Even Though The Killer In You Has Gotten Out.

I Like You; Your Eyes Are Full Of Language." [letter To Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]

Everyone In Me Is A Bird I Am Beating All My Wings

Fear / A Motor, / Pumps Me Around And Around / Until I Fade Slowly.

Death, I Need My Little Addiction To You. I Need That Tiny Voice Who, Even As I Rise From The Sea, All Woman, All There, Says Kill Me, Kill Me.