We Are All Writing God's Poem.

You Must Be A Poet, A Lady Of Evil Luck Desiring To Be What You Are Not, Longing To Be What You Can Only Visit.

Thumbs Grow Into My Throat. I Wear Slaps Like A Spot Of Rouge.

O Yellow Eye, Let Me Be Sick With Your Heat, Let Me Be Feverish And Frowning.

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.

Letters Are False Really - They Are Expressions Of The Way You Wish You Were Instead Of The Way You Are.