Abundance Is Scooped From Abundance

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

Today Is Made Of Yesterday, Each Time I Steal Toward Rites I Do Not Know, Waiting For The Lost Ingredient, As If Salt Or Money Or Even Lust Would Keep Us Calm And Prove Us Whole At Last.

We Do Not Explain My Husband's Insane Abuse And We Do Not Say Why Your Wild-haired Wife Has Fled Or That My Father Opened Like A Walnut And Then Was Dead. Your Palms Fold Over Me Like Knees. Love Is The Only Use.

It Is June. I Am Tired Of Being Brave.

The Day Of Fire Is Coming, The Thrush Will Fly Ablaze Like A Little Sky Rocket.