The Measured Blood Beats Out

The Women Rest Their Tired Half-healed Hearts; They Are Almost Well.

But Childhood Prolonged, Cannot Remain A Fairyland. It Becomes A Hell.

Women Have No Wilderness In Them They Are Provident Instead Content In The Tight Hot Cell Of Their Hearts To Eat Dusty Bread.

No More Pronouncements On Lousy Verse. No More Hidden Competition. No More Struggling Not To Be A Square.

I Hope That One Or Two Immortal Lyrics Will Come Out Of All This Tumbling Around.