Our Eyes Are Full Of Terrible Confessions.

Father, You Died Once, Salted Down At Fifty-nine, Packed Down Like A Big Snow Angel, Wasn't That Enough?

I Was Spread Out Dailyand Examined For Flaws.

I Remember The Stink Of The Liverwurst. How I Was Put On A Platter And Laid Between The Mayonnaise And The Bacon. The Rhythm Of The Refrigerator Had Been Disturbed.

Poetry Is My Life, My Postmark, My Hands, My Kitchen, My Face.

I Raise My Pelvis To God So That It May Know The Truth Of How Flowers Smash Through The Long Winter.