I Am Stuffing Your Mouth With Your

I Lay There Silently, Hoarding My Small Dignity. I Did Not Ask About The Gate Or The Closet. I Did Not Question The Bedtime Ritual Where, On The Cold Bathroom Tiles, I Was Spread Out Daily And Examined For Flaws. I Did Not Know That My Bones, Those Solids, Those Pieces Of Sculpture Would Not Splinter.

I Am Out Of Practice At Living. You Are As Brave As A Motorcycle.

Someone Is Dead. Even The Trees Know It, Those Poor Old Dancers Who Come On Lewdly, All Pea-green Scarfs And Spine Pole.

I Am Younger Each Year At The First Snow.

The Place I Live In Is A Kind Of Maze And I Keep Seeking The Exit Or The Home.