As A Writer One Has To Take

I Would Like To Think That No One Would Die Anymore If We All Believed In Daisies But The Worms Know Better, Don't They? They Slide Into The Ear Of A Corpse And Listen To His Great Sigh.

O Fallen Angel, The Companion Within Me, Whisper Something Holy Before You Pinch Me Into The Grave.

Someone Is Dead. Even The Trees Know It, Those Poor Old Dancers Who Come On Lewdly, All Pea-green Scarfs And Spine Pole.

I Am Younger Each Year At The First Snow. When I See It, Suddenly, In The Air, All Little And White And Moving; Then I Am In Love Again And Very Young And I Believe Everything.

And Tonight Our Skin, Our Bones, That Have Survived Our Fathers, Will Meet, Delicate In The Hold, Fastened Together In An Intricate Lock. Then One Of Us Will Shout, "my Need Is More Desperate!" And I Will Eat You Slowly With Kisses Even Though The Killer In You Has Gotten Out.