Mother of otherness, Eat me.

Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.

I do not fear it: I have been there.

As I lay on my back in bed staring up at the blank, white ceiling the stillness seemed to grow bigger and bigger until I felt my eardrums would burst with it.

Death may whiten in sun or out of it.

Let me live, love and say it well in good sentences.

I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who ski better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.