But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.

Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.

For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.

I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!

She suffers according to the digits of my hate. I hear the filaments of alabaster. I would lie down with them and lift my madness off like a wig. I would lie outside in a room of wool and let the snow cover me. Paris white or flake white or argentine, all in the washbasin of my mouth, calling “Oh.” I am empty. I am witless. Death is here. There is no other settlement.

The joy that isn't shared dies young.

Today life opened inside me like an egg.