When The Cow Gives Blood And The

The Windows, The Starving Windows That Drive The Trees Like Nails Into My Heart.

The Grass As Bristly And Stout As Chives And Me Wondering When The Ground Will Break And Me Wondering How Anything Fragile Survives

You Must Be A Poet, A Lady Of Evil Luck Desiring To Be What You Are Not, Longing To Be What You Can Only Visit.

I Wonder If The Artist Ever Lives His Life--he Is So Busy Recreating It.

I Remember The Stink Of The Liverwurst. How I Was Put On A Platter And Laid Between The Mayonnaise And The Bacon. The Rhythm Of The Refrigerator Had Been Disturbed.