It Is Not Sex That Gives The

I Have No Connections Here; Only Gusty Collisions, Rootless Seedlings Forced Into Bloom, That Collapse. ... I Am The Visiting Poet: A Real Unicorn, A Wind-up Plush Dodo, A Wax Museum Of The Movement. People Want To Push The Buttons And See Me Glow.

We Must Shine With Hope, Stained Glass Windows That Shape Light Into Icons, Glow Like Lanterns Borne Before A Procession. Who Can Bear Hope Back Into The World But Us.

I Mourn In Grey, Grey As The Sleeted Wind The Bled Shades Of Twilight, Gunmetal, Battleships, Industrial Paint.

The Price Of Seeing Is Silence.

Writing Is A Futile Attempt To Preserve What Disappears Moment By Moment. All That Remains Of My Mother Is What I Remember And What I Have Written For And About Her. Eventually That Is All That Will Remain Of [my Husband] And Me. Writing Sometimes Feels Frivolous And Sometimes Sacred, But Memory Is One Of My Strongest Muses. I Serve Her With My Words. So Long As People Read, Those We Love Survive However Evanescently. As Do We Writers, Saying With Our Life's Work, Remember. Remember Us. Remember Me.