Well, One Gets Out Of Bed And

The Windows, The Starving Windows That Drive The Trees Like Nails Into My Heart.

One Can't Build Little White Picket Fences To Keep Nightmares Out.

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.

Thumbs Grow Into My Throat. I Wear Slaps Like A Spot Of Rouge.

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