The Slime Of All My Yesterdays Rots

I Could Feel The Winter Shaking My Bones And Banging My Teeth Together.

I Have Been Holding A Dialogue With Myself And Girding Myself To Stand Fast Without Running.

My Flesh Winced, In Cowardice, From Such A Death.

But When I Took Up My Pen, My Hand Made Big, Jerky Letters Like Those Of A Child, And The Lines Sloped Down The Page From Left To Right Horizontally, As If They Were Loops Of String Lying On The Paper, And Someone Had Come Along And Blown Them Askew.

And I A Smiling Woman. I Am Only Thirty. And Like The Cat I Have Nine Times To Die.