O love, how did you get here?

If you dissect a bird / to diagram the tongue, / you'll cut the chord / articulating song.

Is to throw together events from my own life, fictionalizing to add color—it’s a pot boiler really, but I think it will show how isolated a person feels when he is suffering a breakdown . . . I’ve tried to picture my world and the people in it as seen through the distorting lens of a bell jar.

What is so real as the cry of a child? A rabbit's cry may be wilder But it has no soul.

I wish to cry. Yet, I laugh, and my lipstick leaves a red stain like a bloody crescent moon on top of the beer can

The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.

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