Now I'm blinking in a new gloaming and all I see as I'm stretched low down Paris a world of women flat on their frozen faces. We are the ground itself, corporeal carpet of cells, softness calloused hard beneath the pebbled soles of the fatherland husbands and brothers and priest sand it's a horror if you could see it, a world of women ruined by man's fear.

Night Cycles: Poetry for a Dark Night of the Soul