The Universe Is Made Of Stories, Not

Outrage And Possibility Are In All The Poems We Know.

Flight Is Intolerable Contradiction.

In Time Of Crisis, We Summon Up Our Strength. Then, If We Are Lucky, We Are Able To Call Every Resource, Every Forgotten Image That Can Leap To Our Quickening, Every Memory That Can Make Us Know Our Power. And This Luck Is More Than It Seems To Be: It Depends On The Long Preparation Of The Self To Be Used.

I Am Haunted By Interrupted Acts, Introspective As A Leper, Enchanted By A Repulsive Clew, A Gross And Fugitive Movement Of The Limbs. Is This The Love That Shook The Lights To Flame?

Women In Drudgery Knew They Must Be One Of Four: Whores, Artists, Saints, And Wives. There Are Composite Lives That Women Always Live