I click on the pencil. It is all yellow.
I don't even want to write about you any more.
(I am aware of the hypocrisy,
a biggest pet peeve).
Yes, I know. there can only be one.
I ate a fig straight from the tree. Adam gave it to me.
It wasn't ripe enough. I ate it anyway; I had never eaten a fig before. Remember when we were in the Cloisters?
Remember when I used to be a nun.
So many names people have called me how many have I answered to none.
Remembe when I was going to be a monk. That was a choice and I relished it. I rejected it.
I chose to be torn limb from limb.
I am alive and I savor it. It confuses me. I am calm that I am not calm. I am freaking out inside. Your mother was a horse and your father the butt of a zebra. Don't be crass.
I wonder if I will ruin it. I wonder if that's possible. It's not. I know.
I want to end I cannot end it. Like the labyrinth: we don't know where we are, or where we are going. how to get there.
at the moment when you need it the way appears.