Secretly, In Studies And Attics And Schoolrooms

I Am Solitary As Grass. What Is It I Miss? Shall I Ever Find It, Whatever It Is?

The First Time It Happened I Was Ten. It Was An Accident. The Second Time I Meant To Last It Out And Not Come Back At All. I Rocked Shut As A Seashell. They Had To Call And Call And Pick The Worms Off Me Like Sticky Pearls. Dying Is An Art, Like Everything Else. I Do It Exceptionally Well. I Do It So It Feels Like Hell. I Do It So It Feels Real. I Guess You Could Say I've A Call.

I Could Feel The Winter Shaking My Bones And Banging My Teeth Together.

O Love, How Did You Get Here?

What I Fear Most, I Think, Is The Death Of The Imagination.