Poems Aren't Postcards To Send Home.

To Tell The Truth Days Are All The Same Size And Words Aren't Much Company.

The Heart, This Child Of Myself That Resides In The Flesh, This Ultimate Signature Of The Me, The Start Of My Blindness And Sleep, Builds A Death Crèche.

But My Future Is A Secret. / It Is As Shy As A Mole.

She Is So Naked And Singular. She Is The Sum Of Yourself And Your Dream. Climb Her Like A Monument, Step After Step. She Is Solid.

I See Myself As One Would See Another. I Have Been Cut In Two.