Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.

A woman like that is misunderstood.I have been her kind.

A woman who writes feels too much, Those trances and portents!

We are America.We are the coffin fillers.We are the grocers of death.We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.The bomb opens like a shoebox.And the child?The child is certainly not yawning.And the woman?The woman is bathing her heart.It has been torn out of herand as a last actshe is rinsing it off in the river.This is the death market.America,where are your credentials?

Say, I am the air I break; or say,I am a spool unwinding.

No. Not really red,but the color of a rose when it bleeds.

It is snowing and death bugs meas stubborn as insomnia.