Sorrow Is Easier Than Guilt.

Someone Is Dead. Even The Trees Know It, Those Poor Old Dancers Who Come On Lewdly, All Pea-green Scarfs And Spine Pole.

For I Could Not Read Or Speak And On The Long Nights I Could Not Turn The Moon Off Or Count The Lights Of Cars Across The Ceiling.

Yet Love Enters My Blood Like An I.v., Dripping In Its Little White Moments.

Well, One Gets Out Of Bed And The Planets Don't Always Hiss Or Muck Up The Day, Each Day.

Now That I Have Written Many Words, And Let Out So Many Loves, For So Many, And Been Altogether What I Always Was A Woman Of Excess, Of Zeal And Greed, I Find The Effort Useless.