I Am A Collection Of Dismantled Almosts.

I Rot On The Wall, My Own Dorian Gray.

You Who Have Inhabited Me In The Deepest And Most Broken Place, Are Going, Going

Jesus Saw The Multitudes Were Hungry And He Said, Oh Lord, Send Down A Short-order Cook.

There Is No Word For Time. Today We Will Not Think To Number Another Summer Or Watch Its White Bird Into The Ground.

It Was As If A Morning-glory Had Bloomed In Her Throat, And All That Blue And Small Pollen Ate Into My Heart, Violent And Religious