Mother Of Otherness, Eat Me.

I Thought If Only I Had A Keen, Shapely Bone Structure To My Face Or Could Discuss Politics Shrewdly Or Was A Famous Writer Constantin Might Find Me Interesting Enough To Sleep With. And Then I Wondered If As Soon As He Came To Like Me He Would Sink Into Ordinariness, And If As Soon As He Came To Love Me I Would Find Fault, The Way I Did With Buddy Willard And The Boys Before Him.

I Have Stitched Life Into Me Like A Rare Organ

I Was My Own Woman. The Next Step Was To Find The Proper Sort Of Man.

What Is So Real As The Cry Of A Child? A Rabbit's Cry May Be Wilder But It Has No Soul.

Winter Dawn Is The Color Of Metal, The Trees Stiffen Into Place Like Burnt Nerves.