Death, I Need My Little Addiction To

Images Are Probably The Most Important Part Of The Poem. First Of All You Want To Tell A Story, But Images Are What Are Going To Shore It Up And Get To The Heart Of The Matter.

The Little Girl Skipped By Under The Wrinkled Oak Leaves And Held Fast To A Replica Of Herself.

Not That It Was Beautiful, But That, In The End, There Was A Certain Sense Of Order There; Something Worth Learning In That Narrow Diary Of My Mind

Maybe I Am Becoming A Hermit, Opening The Door For Only A Few Special Animals? Maybe My Skull Is Too Crowded And It Has No Opening Through Which To Feed It Soup?

I Can Only Sign Over Everything, The House, The Dog, The Ladders, The Jewels, The Soul, The Family Tree, The Mailbox. Then I Can Sleep. Maybe.