In Every House Of Marriage

In My Darkest Night, When The Moon Was Covered And I Roamed Through Wreckage, A Nimbus-clouded Voice Directed Me: "live In The Layers, Not On The Litter." Though I Lack The Art To Decipher It, No Doubt The Next Chapter In My Book Of Transformations Is Already Written. I Am Not Done With My Changes.

Poetry Is Language Surprised In The Act Of Changing Into Meaning.

How Shall The Heart Be Reconciled / To Its Feast Of Losses?

The Unconscious Creates, The Ego Edits.

Darling, Do You Remember The Man You Married? Touch Me, Remind Me Who I Am.