All Who Love Have Lied.

It Doesn't Matter Who My Father Was; It Matters Who I Remember He Was.

I, In My Brand New Body, Which Was Not A Woman's Yet, Told The Stars My Questions And Thought God Could Really See The Heat And The Painted Light, Elbows, Knees, Dreams, Goodnight.

My Objects Dream And Wear New Costumes, Compelled To, It Seems, By All The Words In My Hands And The Sea That Bangs In My Throat.

Thief!- How Did You Crawl Into, Crawl Down Alone Into The Death I Wanted So Badly And For So Long.

I Wonder If The Artist Ever Lives His Life--he Is So Busy Recreating It.