I have been cut in two.

God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.

Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.

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.

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 windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.

Poems aren't postcards to send home.