Poems Aren't Postcards To Send Home.

I Would Like To Bury All The Hating Eyes Under The Sand Somewhere.

Everyone Has Left Me Except My Muse, That Good Nurse. She Stays In My Hand, A Mild White Mouse.

I Have Been Cut In Two.

Nature Is Full Of Teeth That Come In One By One, Then Decay, Fall Out.

The Man Inside Of Woman Ties A Knot So That They Will Never Again Be Separate.