August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.

Let me not be weak and tell others how bleeding I am internally; how day by day it drips, and gathers, and congeals.

But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defensless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get.

And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!

The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T.B. Once you were beautiful.