You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going

The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.

Emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea.

Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.

... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.

Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.

Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?