I Am Out Of Practice At Living.

Somebody Who Should Have Been Born Is Gone.

One Of My Secret Instructions To Myself As A Poet Is "whatever You Do, Don't Be Boring."

The Windows, The Starving Windows That Drive The Trees Like Nails Into My Heart.

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.

Not That It Was Beautiful, But That I Found Some Order There.