Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings

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.

I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.

Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.

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.

I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.

I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.