Through the Kitchen Window
It wasn't the blood
That caught my eye,
Though there was
A good deal of it.
It wasn't the way
His hands shook
When he wiped them.
It was the way
He cried,
When he realized
That he could
No longer
Hold
The knife,
That he had lost
Control
Of his own
Body.
When he realized
That he
Was getting
Old.
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Poetry
 The Girl of Shakespearean Lectures
Inkblots Part II
Through the Kitchen Window
Beyond
Cancer
My Lover
The Sound
Genovese
The Girl Who Needs to be Loved
The Subject
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