Now, In My Middle Age, About Nineteen

With This Pen I Take In Hand My Selves And With These Dead Disciples I Will Grapple. Though Rain Curses The Window Let The Poem Be Made.

As For Me, I Am A Watercolor. I Wash Off.

The Silence Is Death. It Comes Each Day With Its Shock To Sit On My Shoulder, A White Bird, And Peck At The Black Eyes And The Vibrating Red Muscle Of My Mouth.

Women Are Born Twice.

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