Even So, I Must Admire Your Skill.

I Brush My Hair, Waiting In The Pain Machine For My Bones To Get Hard, For The Soft, Soft Bones That Were Laid Apart And Were Screwed Together. They Will Knit. And The Other Corpse, The Fractured Heart, I Feed It Piecemeal, Little Chalice. I'm Good To It.

Of Course The New Testament Is Very Small. Its Mouth Opens Four Times As Out-of-date As A Prehistoric Monster, Yet Somehow Man-made.

I Was The Girl Of The Chain Letter, The Girl Full Of Talk Of Coffins And Keyholes, The One Of The Telephone Bills, The Wrinkled Photo And The Lost Connections.

Inside Many Of Us Is A Small Old Man Who Wants To Get Out.

O Fallen Angel, The Companion Within Me, Whisper Something Holy Before You Pinch Me Into The Grave.