Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.

My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.

Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.

I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.

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.

Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.

Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.