My Eyes, Those Sluts, Those Whores, Would

I Tell You What You’ll Never Really Know: All The Medical Hypothesis That Explained My Brain Will Never Be As True As These Struck Leaves Letting Go.

No One To Hate Except The Slim Fish Of Memory That Slides In And Out Of My Brain.

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

Poems Aren't Postcards To Send Home.

I Love The Word Warm. It Is Almost Unbearable-- So Moist And Breathlike.