Poetry: Three Mismatched Shoes At The Entrance

There Are Knives That Glitter Like Altars In A Dark Church Where They Bring The Cripple And The Imbecile To Be Healed. There's A Woden Block Where Bones Are Broken, Scraped Clean--a River Dried To Its Bed

The Truth Is Dark Under Your Eyelids.

Wanted: A Needle Swift Enough To Sew This Poem Into A Blanket.

One Writes Because One Has Been Touched By The Yearning For And The Despair Of Ever Touching The Other.

I Left Parts Of Myself Everywhere, The Way Absent-minded People Leave Gloves And Umbrellas Whose Colors Are Sad From Dispensing So Much Bad Luck