I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.

Love life day by day, color by color, touch by touch.

They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

I don't see,' I said, 'how people stand being old. Your insides all dry up. When you're young you're so self-reliant. You don't even need much religion.

My flesh winced, in cowardice, from such a death.

Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.

You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.