Images Are The Heart Of Poetry ...

The Soul Was Not Cured, It Was As Full As A Clothes Closet Of Dresses That Did Not Fit.

In A Letter (no Matter How Quickly It Is Written Or Honestly Or Freely Or Lovingly) It Is More Possible To Be Loving And Lovable, More Possible To Reach Out And To Take In ... I Feel I Have Somehow Deceived You Into Thinking This Is Really A Human Relationship. It Is A Letter Relationship Between Humans.

There Is Rust In My Mouth,the Stain Of An Old Kiss.

I Am A Collection Of Dismantled Almosts.

Oh Sharp Diamond, My Mother! I Could Not Count The Cost Of All Your Faces, Your Moods That Present That I Lost. Sweet Girl, My Deathbed, My Jewel-fingered Lady...