The Clown May Be The

Spindly Branches Of Buttercups Were Secreted Among Gleaming Stems Still Moist At The Roots From Last Night's Rain That Had Washedand Refreshed The Entire Wood, Had Dowered It In Poignant Transparency, The Unique, Inconsolable Quality Of Rainy Countries, As If All Was Glimpsed Through Tears.

You Were The Living Image Of The Entire Platonic Shadow Show, An Illusion That Could Fill My Emptiness With Marvellous, Imaginary Things As Long As, Just As Long As, The Movie Lasted, And Then All Would All Vanish.

I Know That Whenever A Group Of Women Are Gathered Together, The Grandmother Always Makes A Phantom Appearance, Hovering Above Them.

I Don't Really Think That Writers, Even Great Writers, Are Prophets, Or Sages, Or Messiah-like Figures; Writing Is A Lonely, Sedentary Occupation And A Touch Of Megalomania Can Be Comforting Around Five On A November Afternoon When You Haven't Seen Anybody All Day.

Just Because We're Sisters Under The Skin Doesn't Mean We've Got Much In Common.