Politically I Don't Believe Anymore That We

We All Have An Old Knot In The Heart We Wish To Untie.

She Lights A Match In The Dark Hall And Moves It Onto The Wick Of The Candle. Light Lifts Itself Onto Her Shoulders. She Is On Her Knees. She Puts Her Hands On Her Thighs And Breathes In The Smell Of The Sulphur. She Imagines She Slap Breathes In Light.

I'll Be Looking At The Moon, But I'll Be Seeing You.

I See The Poem Or The Novel Ending With An Open Door.

...sometimes We Enter Art To Hide Within It. It Is Where We Can Go To Save Ourselves, Where A Third-person Voice Protects Us.