I Rot On The Wall, My Own

The Soul Was Not Cured, It Was As Full As A Clothes Closet Of Dresses That Did Not Fit.

The Grass As Bristly And Stout As Chives And Me Wondering When The Ground Will Break And Me Wondering How Anything Fragile Survives

Today Is Made Of Yesterday, Each Time I Steal Toward Rites I Do Not Know, Waiting For The Lost Ingredient, As If Salt Or Money Or Even Lust Would Keep Us Calm And Prove Us Whole At Last.

Being Kissed On The Back Of The Knee Is A Moth At The Windowscreen.

The Tongue, The Chinese Say, Is Like A Sharp Knife: It Kills Without Drawing Blood.