This Is What Poems Are: With Mercy

Stop The Darkness And Its Amputations And Find The Real Mccoy In The Private Holiness Of My Hands.

I Think Of Myself As Writing For One Person, That One Perfect Reader Who Understands And Loves.

I Am Tearing The Feathers Out Of The Pillows, Waiting, Waiting For Daddy To Come Home And Stuff Me So Full Of Our Infected Child That I Turn Invisible, But Married, At Last.

My Eyes, Those Sluts, Those Whores, Would Play No More.

Death's In The Good-bye.