Someone Is Dead. Even The Trees Know

I Am A Collection Of Dismantled Almosts.

I Think Of Myself As Writing For One Person, That One Perfect Reader Who Understands And Loves.

The Place I Live In Is A Kind Of Maze And I Keep Seeking The Exit Or The Home.

Then All This Became History. Your Hand Found Mine. Life Rushed To My Fingers Like A Blood Clot. Oh, My Carpenter, The Fingers Are Rebuilt. They Dance With Yours.

I Am Not At Home In Myself. I Am My Own Stranger.