Death Is Not Soft-mouthed, Vague-footed,

I Feel Sorry For The Man Who Marries You... Because Everyone Thinks You're Sweet And You're Not.

In Our Opposed Forms Of Loneliness And Self-recognition And Recognition Of The Other, We Touched Each Other Often As We Spoke; And On Shore In Explorations Of The Past, We Strolled With Our Arms Linked.

I Often Thought Men Stank Of Rage; It Is Why I Preferred Women, And Homosexuals.

It Is Death That Goes Down To The Center Of The Earth, The Great Burial Church The Earth Is, And Then To The Curved Ends Of The Universe, As Light Is Said To Do

It Bothers Me That I Won't Live To See The End Of The Century, Because, When I Was Young, In St. Louis, I Remember Saying To Marilyn, My Sister By Adoption, That That Was How Long I Wanted To Live: Seventy Years.