Thumbs Grow Into My Throat. I Wear

Maybe, Although My Heart Is A Kitten Of Butter, I Am Blowing It Up Like A Zeppelin.

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

But Even In A Telephone Booth Evil Can Seep Out Of The Receiver And We Must Cover It With A Mattress, And Then Tear It From Its Roots And Bury It, Bury It.

At Six I Lived In A Graveyard Full Of Dolls, Avoiding Myself, My Body, The Suspect In Its Grotesque House.

Poetry Is My Life, My Postmark, My Hands, My Kitchen, My Face.