Here is her poem for December 7:
When the body is the last company, hands beguile: beaks in long grass, typing for food. It sleeps only to dream of company arriving in a heap of carpetbags and telescopes. The body insists on the best platter for the toast. It wants cream, now it wants a poem: The goal is to make not sense but art of the story, the body is told by another body living on in its cathedral of The Lion, Talking Pictures book. Oof, the body counts the names of important people born on this day. 1352 years without a noteworthy woman if the body is to believe what it reads. The body sags a little. Little body sags. It reads the Great Storm of 1703 was God’s vengeance, a young journalism reported. The government told bodies the storm loudly calls for the deepest and most solemn humiliation of our people: a day of fasting. Bodies eat this kind of reading for breakfast. Affinity for the infinitive, this body insisted on this morning: to breathe, to sing, to light, to give, not wanting chair or sink or door. The body beside itself.
