Poems Aren't Postcards To Send Home.

I Was Spread Out Dailyand Examined For Flaws.

I Am Stuffing Your Mouth With Your Promises And Watching You Vomit Them Out Upon My Face.

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.

I Am Younger Each Year At The First Snow.

Rejoice With The Day Lily For It Is Born For A Day To Live By The Mailbox And Glorify The Roadside