It Is June. I Am Tired Of

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

Why Are All These Dolls Falling Out Of The Sky? Was There A Father? Or Have The Planets Cut Holes In Their Nets And Let Our Childhood Out, Or Are We The Dolls Themselves, Born But Never Fed?

It Is June. I Am Tired Of Being Brave.

I See Myself As One Would See Another. I Have Been Cut In Two.

The Stars Are Pears That No One Can Reach, Even For A Wedding. Perhaps For A Death.