My Mouth Blooms Like A Cut.

Earth, Earthriding Your Merry-go-roundtoward Extinction,right To The Rootsthickening The Oceans Like Gravy,festering In Your Caves,you Are Becoming A Latrine.

I Am Younger Each Year At The First Snow.

But My Future Is A Secret. / It Is As Shy As A Mole.

A Woman Who Writes Feels Too Much.

But Suicides Have A Special Language. Like Carpenters They Want To Know Which Tools. They Never Ask Why Build. Twice I Have So Simply Declared Myself, Have Possessed The Enemy, Eaten The Enemy, Have Taken On His Craft, His Magic.