I cannot walk an inch / without trying to walk to God.

Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.

Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.

The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.

I have been cut in two.

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.

It is June. I am tired of being brave.