The Marriage Twists, Holds Firm, A Sailor's

I Lay There Silently, Hoarding My Small Dignity. I Did Not Ask About The Gate Or The Closet. I Did Not Question The Bedtime Ritual Where, On The Cold Bathroom Tiles, I Was Spread Out Daily And Examined For Flaws. I Did Not Know That My Bones, Those Solids, Those Pieces Of Sculpture Would Not Splinter.

It Was As If A Morning-glory Had Bloomed In Her Throat, And All That Blue And Small Pollen Ate Into My Heart, Violent And Religious

I Rot On The Wall, My Own Dorian Gray.

Blue Eyes Wash Off Sometimes.

I Hoard Books. They Are People Who Do Not Leave.