It Is June. I Am Tired Of

She Suffers According To The Digits Of My Hate. I Hear The Filaments Of Alabaster. I Would Lie Down With Them And Lift My Madness Off Like A Wig. I Would Lie Outside In A Room Of Wool And Let The Snow Cover Me. Paris White Or Flake White Or Argentine, All In The Washbasin Of My Mouth, Calling “oh.” I Am Empty. I Am Witless. Death Is Here. There Is No Other Settlement.

...became A Woman Who Learned Her Own Skin And Dug Into Her Soul And Found It Full.

God Owns Heaven But He Craves The Earth.

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

Women Tell Time By The Body. They Are Like Clocks. They Are Always Fastened To The Earth, Listening For Its Small Animal Noises.