She does write well, in fact she writes all day. She has nothing to say. The boys, the noise. Her hopes, her hormones, her morning cup of tea, A daily opera warm-up of me me me me me. A maker of ritual, a master of her craft, did I mention how her eyes do sparkle .... The mother of a multitude of beautiful lies. It's how the days pass, all day, every day. As if she had a choice about her voice. Holding up the mirror, I see by what I see: The poem has the vision, not the poet set apart, not the passion, not the purpose, not the man with heart. Yes, it could be anyone; No, it happens to be you. So when you are through loving love, and loving what is true, it won't let you sleep, it won't set you free. You can't fool all of anyone, you really can't fool me. As if she had a choice about her voice. --XineAnn