Forward My Mail To Mars.

It Is My Heart That's Late, It Is My Song That's Flown.

In A Murderous Time/the Heart Breaks And Breaks/and Lives By Breaking.

What Makes The Engine Go? Desire, Desire, Desire.

I Want To Write Poems That Are Natural, Luminous, Deep, Spare. I Dream Of An Art So Transparent That You Can Look Through And See The World.

The Heart Breaks And Breaks And Lives By Breaking It Is Necessary To Go Through Dark And Deeper Dark And Not To Turn