I was eight and followed wherever light commanded . . .
Grace . . . kept by itself in the drawer of a bedside table. . .
Here there is flesh to spare, but never enough blood.
Insects have no sense of tragedy.
There are evenings when God walks in this field — yes, this one
The web pulses in the breeze — huge, white, glittering with dew.
let him burn the house down
Nothing here to be had.
And let the dance begin
. . .running riot through red rooms.