<koertge's "for my daughter"> 2003-05-01.12:10 a.m. For My Daughter Ronald Koertge She often lies with both hands behind her head in a San Quentin pose--arms forming a pair of small, empty wings. She does not slip from the bath in a loose robe, affording Follies' glimpses of rump and thigh. She does lumber by in a robe of immense dunciness. Her dates are fixed up or blind often, like specimens, behind thick glass. She leaves late, returns before midnight afraid, perhaps, she will turn into something worse. She comes to me and wants to know what to do. I say I do not know. She comes to me and wants to know if it will ever be all right. I say yes but it will take a long time. back /& forth /& frosting names are often sad