Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.

The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.

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

Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.

Death's in the good-bye.

Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.