I Am Out Of Practice At Living.

Put Your Mouthful Of Words Away And Come With Me To Watch The Lilies Open In Such A Field, Growing There Like Yachts, Slowly Steering Their Petals Without Nurses Or Clocks.

Love Your Self's Self Where It Lives.

But Suicides Have A Special Language. Like Carpenters They Want To Know Which Tools. They Never Ask Why Build. Twice I Have So Simply Declared Myself, Have Possessed The Enemy, Eaten The Enemy, Have Taken On His Craft, His Magic.

[i] Have Fantasies Of Killing Myself And Thus Being The Powerful One Not The Powerless One.

Our Eyes Are Full Of Terrible Confessions.