The Voice Of Your Eyes

The Other Guineahen Died Of A Broken Heart And We Came To New York. I Used To Sit At A Table,drawing Wings With A Pencil That Kept Breaking And I Kept Remembering How Your Mind Looked When It Slept For Several Years,to Wake Up Asking Why. So Then You Turned Into A Photograph Of Somebody Who’s Trying Not To Laugh At Somebody Who’s Trying Not To Cry

Nothing Which We Are To Perceive In This World Equals The Power Of Your Intense Fragility

Nobody, Not Even The Rain, Has Such Small Hands

Somewhere I Have Never Travelled, Gladly Beyond

Suppose Life Is An Old Man Carrying Flowers On His Head.