Poems Aren't Postcards To Send

Poetry To Me Is Prayer.

Thumbs Grow Into My Throat. I Wear Slaps Like A Spot Of Rouge.

My Sleeping Pill Is White. It Is A Splendid Pearl; It Floats Me Out Of Myself, My Stung Skin As Alien As A Loose Bolt Of Cloth.

All In All, I'd Say, The World Is Strangling.

... And My Love Stays Bitterly Glowing, Spasms Of It Will Not Sleep, And I Am Helpless And Thirsty And Need Shade But There Is No One To Cover Me- Not Even God.