No Matter Whose Bed You

The Tongue, The Chinese Say, Is Like A Sharp Knife: It Kills Without Drawing Blood.

It Is June. I Am Tired Of Being Brave.

To Die Whole, Riddled With Nothing But Desire For It, Is Like Breakfast After Love.

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.

Yes, I Know. Death Sits With His Key In My Lock. Not One Day Is Taken For Granted. Even Nursery Rhymes Have Put Me In Hock.