This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.

Miracles occur, If you dare to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent.

I inhabit the wax image of myself, a doll's body. Sickness begins here; I am a dartboard for witches.

I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.

Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little?

Like a cat I have nine times to die.