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

I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.

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.

Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.

It is June. I am tired of being brave.

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

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