For Forty Days, For Forty Nights Jesus

Meanwhile In My Head, I’m Undergoing Open-heart Surgery.

Don't Bite Till You Know If It's Bread Or Stone.

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

I Am Tearing The Feathers Out Of The Pillows, Waiting, Waiting For Daddy To Come Home And Stuff Me So Full Of Our Infected Child That I Turn Invisible, But Married, At Last.

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