Not That It Was Beautiful, But That

...became A Woman Who Learned Her Own Skin And Dug Into Her Soul And Found It Full.

This Is No Dream Just My Oily Life Where The People Are Alibis And The Street Is Unfindable For An Entire Lifetime.

I Am Tearing The Feathers Out Of The Pillows, Waiting, Waiting For Daddy To Come Home And Stuff Me So Full Of Our Infected Child That I Turn Invisible, But Married, At Last.

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

My Eyes, Those Sluts, Those Whores, Would Play No More.