To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.

Will occur as time grows more open about it.

I often wonder if I am suffering from some mental dysfunction because of how weird and baffling my poetry seems to so many people and sometimes to me too.

Silly girls your heads full of boys

Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.

The winter does what it can for its children.

Poetry is mostly hunches.