No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
I. I am the scorned mistress, says the scorned mistress nakedly. She gives up the brilliant golden burnish of girlhood in the time it takes for the motel bathwater to run dry.
You bought sunflower seeds, planted one for each of us. I watched you weed them until they grew four feet.
Blessed I am to not be twenty two shoveling confetti cake into my mouth from the kitchen floor after a birthday party he showed up to three hours late.
It's daytime and only one alley is paved with books It's two o' clock in my mind to be precise and proper and the letters on the walls are stolen from the inscription of book thieves;
...Beauty worth more than gold in Delft he was deft at teasing riches from lead-tin yellow what’s good for the gander is good for the guilder...
They coerced the ink into a sacred text and instructed us to quietly find our seats between the words.