Jewels! Today Each Twig Is

I Am Stuffing Your Mouth With Your Promises And Watching You Vomit Them Out Upon My Face.

You Must Be A Poet, A Lady Of Evil Luck Desiring To Be What You Are Not, Longing To Be What You Can Only Visit.

Bless All Useful Objects, The Spoons Made Of Bone, The Mattress I Cook My Dreams Upon, The Typewriter That Is My Church With An Altar Of Keys Always Waiting.

Unless I Can Shake Myself Free Of My Dog, My Flag, Of My Desk, My Mind, I Find Life A Bit Of A Drag. Not Always, Mind You. Usually I'm Like My Frying Pan Useful, Graceful, Sturdy And With No Caper, No Plan.

Then All This Became History. Your Hand Found Mine. Life Rushed To My Fingers Like A Blood Clot. Oh, My Carpenter, The Fingers Are Rebuilt. They Dance With Yours.