Poems Aren't Postcards To Send Home.

O Fallen Angel, The Companion Within Me, Whisper Something Holy Before You Pinch Me Into The Grave.

The Sea Is Mother-death And She Is A Mighty Female, The One Who Wins, The One Who Sucks Us All Up.

Craft Is A Trick You Make Up To Let You Write The Poem.

Cinderella And The Prince Lived, They Say, Happily Ever After, Like Two Dolls In A Museum Case Never Bothered By Diapers Or Dust, Never Arguing Over The Timing Of An Egg, Never Telling The Same Story Twice.

Someone Is Dead. Even The Trees Know It, Those Poor Old Dancers Who Come On Lewdly, All Pea-green Scarfs And Spine Pole.