When I Die, I Will

On The Day The World Ends A Bee Circles A Clover, A Fisherman Mends A Glimmering Net.

Men Will Clutch At Illusions When They Have Nothing Else To Hold To.

I Am Composed Of Contradictions, Which Is Why Poetry Is A Better Form For Me Than Philosophy

I Knew That I Would Speak In The Language Of The Vanquished No More Durable Than Old Customs, Family Rituals, Christmas Tinsel, And Once A Year The Hilarity Of Carols.

A Weak Human Mercy Walks In The Corridors Of Hospitals And Is Like A Half-thawed Winter.