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

Let there be a heaven so that man may outlive his grasses.

...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.

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

If I could blame it on all the mothers and fathers of the world, they of the lessons, the pellets of power, they of the love surrounding you like batter ... Blame it on God perhaps? He of the first opening that pushed us all into our first mistakes? No, I'll blame it on Man For Man is God and man is eating the earth up like a candy bar and not one of them can be left alone with the ocean for it is known he will gulp it all down. The stars (possibly) are safe. At least for the moment. The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.

Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.

Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.