Once I Was Beautiful. Now I Am

It's A Little Mad, But I Believe I Am Many People. When I Am Writing A Poem, I Feel I Am The Person Who Should Have Written It.

The Grass As Bristly And Stout As Chives And Me Wondering When The Ground Will Break And Me Wondering How Anything Fragile Survives

And Tonight Our Skin, Our Bones, That Have Survived Our Fathers, Will Meet, Delicate In The Hold, Fastened Together In An Intricate Lock. Then One Of Us Will Shout, "my Need Is More Desperate!" And I Will Eat You Slowly With Kisses Even Though The Killer In You Has Gotten Out.

I Rot On The Wall, My Own Dorian Gray.

There Is Hope. There Is Hope Everywhere. Today God Give Milk And I Have The Pail.