There Is No Word For Time. Today

I Put The Gold Star Up In The Front Window Beside The Flag. Alterations Is What I Know And What I Did: Hems, Gussets And Seams.

She Suffers According To The Digits Of My Hate. I Hear The Filaments Of Alabaster. I Would Lie Down With Them And Lift My Madness Off Like A Wig. I Would Lie Outside In A Room Of Wool And Let The Snow Cover Me. Paris White Or Flake White Or Argentine, All In The Washbasin Of My Mouth, Calling “oh.” I Am Empty. I Am Witless. Death Is Here. There Is No Other Settlement.

My Business Is Words. Words Are Like Labels, Or Coins, Or Better, Like Swarming Bees.

Our Eyes Are Full Of Terrible Confessions.

Not That It Was Beautiful, But That I Found Some Order There.