The Fish Are Naked. The

My Eyes, Those Sluts, Those Whores, Would Play No More.

The Body Is A Damn Hard Thing To Kill.

I Like You; Your Eyes Are Full Of Language." [letter To Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]

I've Grown Tired Of Love You Are The Trouble With Me I Watch You Walk Right By

I Am Alone Here In My Own Mind. There Is No Map And There Is No Road. It Is One Of A Kind Just As Yours Is.