As For Me, I Am A Watercolor.

Not That It Was Beautiful, But That I Found Some Order There.

Fear / A Motor, / Pumps Me Around And Around / Until I Fade Slowly.

Father, You Died Once, Salted Down At Fifty-nine, Packed Down Like A Big Snow Angel, Wasn't That Enough?

You Who Have Inhabited Me In The Deepest And Most Broken Place, Are Going, Going

Suicide Is, After All, The Opposite Of The Poem.