When She Kissed Him, He Melted Like

We Must Shine With Hope, Stained Glass Windows That Shape Light Into Icons, Glow Like Lanterns Borne Before A Procession. Who Can Bear Hope Back Into The World But Us.

The Moon Is Always Female And So Am I Although Often In The Vale Of Razorblades I Have Wished I Could Put On And Take Off My Sex Like A Dress And Why Not?

I Want To Be With People Who Submerge In The Task, Who Go Into The Fields To Harvest And Work In A Row And Pass The Bags Along, Who Are Not Parlor Generals And Field Deserters But Move In A Common Rhythm When The Food Must Come In Or The Fire Be Put Out. The Work Of The World Is Common As Mud. Botched, It Smears The Hands, Crumbles To Dust. But The Thing Worth Doing Well Done Has A Shape That Satisfies, Clean And Evident.

When Midlist Writers Are Treated Like Dirt, I Would Desist Were I Less Stubborn And Less Committed.

There Is No Justice We Don't Make Daily Like Bread And Love.