Evil Is Maybe Lying To God. Or

Poems Aren't Postcards To Send Home.

Blind With Love, My Daughter Has Cried Nightly For Horses, Those Long-necked Marchers And Churners That She Has Mastered, Any And All, Reigning Them In Like A Circus Hand.

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

In A Letter (no Matter How Quickly It Is Written Or Honestly Or Freely Or Lovingly) It Is More Possible To Be Loving And Lovable, More Possible To Reach Out And To Take In ... I Feel I Have Somehow Deceived You Into Thinking This Is Really A Human Relationship. It Is A Letter Relationship Between Humans.

Evil Is Maybe Lying To God. Or Better, Lying To Love.