No Matter Whose Bed You

I Said, The Poets Are There I Hear Them Singing And Lying Around Their Round Table And Around Me Still.

Poems Aren't Postcards To Send Home.

Let There Be A Heaven So That Man May Outlive His Grasses.

I Would Sell My Life To Avoid The Pain That Begins In The Crib With Its Bars Or Perhaps With Your First Breath When The Planets Drill Your Future Into You.

I Love The Word Warm. It Is Almost Unbearable-- So Moist And Breathlike.