I didn't want any flowers, I only wantedto lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.How free it is, you have no idea how free.

Dying is an art.Like everything else,I do it exceptionally well.I do it so it feels like hell.I do it so it feels real.I guess you could say I have a call.

She has foldedThem back into her body as petalsOf a rose close when the garden Stiffens and odours bleedFrom the sweet, deep throats of the night flower. The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring...

Its snaky acids kiss.It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults That kill, that kill, that kill.

The still watersWrap my lips,Eyes, nose and ears,A clearCellophane I cannot crack.

They might ignore me immediately. In my moon suit and funeral veil. I am no source of honeySo why should they turn on me?Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.

A living doll, everywhere you look. It can sew, it can cook, It can talk, talk, talk. It works, there is nothing wrong with it. You have a hole, its a poultice. You have an eye, its an image. My boy,...

Stasis in darkness.Then the substanceless blue

And I, stepping from this skinOf old bandages, boredoms, old facesStep to you from the black car of Lethe,Pure as a baby.

I am the magician's girl who does not flinch.

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

The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.

My bones hold a stillness, the farFields melt my heart.

I am inhabited by a cry.Nightly it flaps outLooking, with its hooks, for something to loveI am terrified by this dark thingThat sleeps in me;All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

Over your body the clouds goHigh, high and icilyAnd a little flat, as if theyFloated on a glass that was invisible.Unlike swans, Having no reflections;Unlike you, With no strings attached.All cool,...

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,White as a knuckle and terribly upset.It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quietWith the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.

The frost makes a flower, the dew makes a star.

Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.

Clouds pass and disperse.Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?Is it for such I agitate my heart?

You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.

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

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.You leave the same impressionOf something beautiful, but annihilating.Both of you are great light borrowers.Her O-mouth grieves at the world; yours is...

I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly, as the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.

The blood jet is poetryThere is no stopping it.

The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.

Is it the sea you hear in me,Its dissatisfactions?Or the voice of nothing, that was you madness?

I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps outLooking, with its hooks, for something to love.

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

At twenty I tried to dieAnd get back, back, back to you.I thought even the bones would do.