You Must Be A Poet, A Lady

My Life Has Appeared Unclothed In Court, Detail By Detail, Death-bone Witness By Death-bone Witness, And I Was Shamed At The Verdict.

Poetry Is My Life, My Postmark, My Hands, My Kitchen, My Face.

No Matter Whose Bed You Die In The Bed Will Be Yours For Your Voyage Onto The Surgical Andiron Of God.

I Raise My Pelvis To God So That It May Know The Truth Of How Flowers Smash Through The Long Winter.

Fear / A Motor, / Pumps Me Around And Around / Until I Fade Slowly.