>There is more to a long time than years. There is
staying still fretting for itself bloodying its knuckles
in secret knowing nothing of men and the arc of their troubles
mostly less …if only I didn’t have to speak …and if bombs were beautiful. I have breasts: they are beasts
tame as vanilla. I have wanted things. It is a long haul to the grave all
hunched gathering hair …black is best for that. Even love is not red
or something bright.