And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die.

I have taken a pill to kill The thin Papery feeling.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.

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.

Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.

I used to pray to recover you.

Backward we traveled to reclaim the day Before we fell, like Icarus, undone; All we find are altars in decay And profane words scrawled black across the sun.