The Sea Is Mother-death And She Is

Suicides Have A Special Language. Like Carpenters They Want To Know Which Tools. They Never Ask Why Build.

All Who Love Have Lied.

I Am In My Own Mind. I Am Locked In The Wrong House.

Now I Am Just An Elderly Lady Who Is Full Of Spleen, Who Humps Around Greater Boston In A God-awful Hat, Who Never Lived And Yet Outlived Her Time, Hating Men And Dogs And Democrats.

It Is A Dead Heart. It Is Inside Of Me. It Is A Stranger Yet Once It Was Agreeable, Opening And Closing Like A Clam.