The Tulips Are Too Red...they Hurt Me.

Perfection Is Terrible, It Cannot Have Children.

I Wanted Change And Excitement And To Shoot Off In All Directions Myself, Like The Colored Arrows From A Fourth Of July Rocket.

I Have Stitched Life Into Me Like A Rare Organ

Jealousy Can Open The Blood, It Can Make Black Roses.

All The Heat And Fear Had Purged Itself. I Felt Surprisingly At Peace. The Bell Jar Hung Suspended A Few Feet Above My Head. I Was Open To The Circulating Air.