I've Eaten A Bag Of Green Apples.

I Smile, Now, Thinking: We All Like To Think We Are Important Enough To Need Psychiatrists

What I Want Back Is What I Was Before The Bed, Before The Knife, Before The Brooch-pin And The Salve Fixed Me In This Parenthesis; Horses Fluent In The Wind, A Place, A Time Gone Out Of Mind.

Death May Whiten In Sun Or Out Of It.

I Was My Own Woman. The Next Step Was To Find The Proper Sort Of Man.

There Ought, I Thought, To Be A Ritual For Being Born Twice - Patched, Retreaded And Approved For The Road.