Now, In My Middle Age,

God Went Out Of Me As If The Sea Dried Up Like Sandpaper, As If The Sun Became A Latrine. God Went Out Of My Fingers. They Became Stone. My Body Became A Side Of Mutton And Despair Roamed The Slaughterhouse.

I Raise My Pelvis To God So That It May Know The Truth Of How Flowers Smash Through The Long Winter.

I Love You. You Are Closest To My Heart, Closer Than Any Other Human Being. You Are My Extension. You Are My Prayer. You Are My Belief In God. For Better Or Worse You Inherit Me.

I Am Tearing The Feathers Out Of The Pillows, Waiting, Waiting For Daddy To Come Home And Stuff Me So Full Of Our Infected Child That I Turn Invisible, But Married, At Last.

My Sleeping Pill Is White. It Is A Splendid Pearl; It Floats Me Out Of Myself, My Stung Skin As Alien As A Loose Bolt Of Cloth.