Your Body Hurts Me As The World

Bright Beads Of Red Are Rising Through The Ink, Hearts-blood Bubbles Smearing Out Into The Black Stream

For Me, Poetry Is An Evasion Of The Real Job Of Writing Prose.

Over Coffee And Orange Juice The Embryonic Suicide Brightens Visibly.

I Keep Wanting To Crawl Back Into The Womb.

We Know A Thing By Its Opposite Corollary; Hot By Having Experienced Cold; Good By Having Decided What Is Bad; Love By Hate.