She, under her
Big smile stows
away
the unhappy memories
...
what is poetry anymore/is it this? /
a parade of words/blank ants
crawling across the page/in
a series of condensed/paragraphs.
...
Her hands were bound
to puppet strings
she couldn't run
she couldn't scream.
...
sitting in the warm comfort
of our home, i squabble
with my little sister over your
newly-baked
...
He escaped from the circus,
shark-eyed, white-gloved.
His nose redder than Eve's Apple,
his face whiter than the white of Death.
...
and all the men and women merely players?
...
Cloudy green
Lush Forest, made
of the stuff
dreams are made of,
...