Poetry To Me Is Prayer.

And Within The House Ashes Are Being Stuffed Into My Marriage, Fury Is Lapping The Walls, Dishes Crack On The Shelves, A Strangler Needs My Throat, The Daughter Has Ceased To Eat Anything.

And The Aura Of You Remains, Remains, Remains...

I Like You; Your Eyes Are Full Of Language." [letter To Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]

We Are America. We Are The Coffin Fillers. We Are The Grocers Of Death. We Pack Them In Crates Like Cauliflowers.

All Who Love Have Lied.