The Survivors | 
My mother who died young
In an outlandish rhythm
Would have been seventy now
And perhaps dead in funeral time.
So I may start to mourn
As I would celebrate
The first or second birthday
Of a still-born baby.
- Out of Season
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My mother who died young
In an outlandish rhythm
Would have been seventy now
And perhaps dead in funeral time.
So I may start to mourn
As I would celebrate
The first or second birthday
Of a still-born baby.
- Out of Season
I am to be cured, now that summer is finished
Harvested of my sickness, re-arranged for winter.
Seven devils are not easily banished
Nor the knot of blindness loosened by a quick knife.
Outside, ignored, the July evenings saunter,
I have turned back to my room, waiting for my life,
Trying to recollect how the white drug fell
Clogging my veins in an avalanche of sleep
- Life Story
Between the illness and the cure there is a strange realm
Peopled by ignorant subjects who want and do not want
The sword of sanity and the elm
Stake that scotches the vampire.
- Life Story