Suddenly I'm Not Half The Girl I

Bless All Useful Objects, The Spoons Made Of Bone, The Mattress I Cook My Dreams Upon, The Typewriter That Is My Church With An Altar Of Keys Always Waiting.

The Trouble With Therapy Is That It Makes Life Go Backwards.

Oh, Darling, Let Your Body In, Let It Tie You In, In Comfort.

To Love Another Is Somethinglike Prayer And It Can't Be Planned, You Just Fallinto Its Arms Because Your Belief Undoes Your Disbelief.

Father, You Died Once, Salted Down At Fifty-nine, Packed Down Like A Big Snow Angel, Wasn't That Enough?