The Stars Are Pears That

There Is Joy In All: In The Hair I Brush Each Morning, In The Cannon Towel, Newly Washed, That I Rub My Body With Each Morning.

I Think I've Been Writing Black Poems All Along, Wearing My White Mask. I'm Always The Victim ... But No Longer!

The Little Girl Skipped By Under The Wrinkled Oak Leaves And Held Fast To A Replica Of Herself.

Oh Thumb, I Want A Drink It Is Dark, Where Are The Big People, When Will I Get There...?

I Love The Word Warm. It Is Almost Unbearable-- So Moist And Breathlike.