A Woman Who Writes Feels Too Much.

Abundance Is Scooped From Abundance Yet Abundance Remains.

My Death From The Wrists, Two Name Tags, Blood Worn Like A Corsage To Bloom One On The Left And One On The Right.

Daylight Is Nobody's Friend. God Comes In Like A Landlord And Flashes On His Brassy Lamp.

This Is No Dream Just My Oily Life Where The People Are Alibis And The Street Is Unfindable For An Entire Lifetime.

The Soul Was Not Cured, It Was As Full As A Clothes Closet Of Dresses That Did Not Fit.