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And it was only much later, at college about the dinner, all these adversities came on—scourges our Lord would ask for mercy, and lit the interior of the ladies’ bodily penance, and the desire that she had, and began to clean [       ] the sort as shall be told hereafter.

It is all for the kiln - the gown as discreetly
and secretly brought every night in her bed
and wore her down—burnt.

She contemplated the only boy I ever actually wept
and ever prayed for: a bitter hawk-nosed Southern prayer
for [ ] was so plentiful and so ‘weekend-only.’

Love at first is not the person. Love is not an end but a process.

Leaving the waters of the worried. The firmament to bring light, to plough the earth and perish

a human act of becoming, a condition flowed from moment and the soup of letters to the blissful trinity for love of my confessors.