Get In, Get Out. Don't Linger. Go

Something’s Died In Me,” She Goes. “it Took A Long Time For It To Do It, But It’s Dead. You’ve Killed Something, Just Like You’d Took An Axe To It. Everything Is Dirt Now.

That Was In Crescent City, California, Up Near The Oregon Border. I Left Soon After. But Today I Was Thinking Of That Place, Of Crescent City, And Of How I Was Trying Out A New Life There With My Wife, And How, In The Barber's Chair That Morning, I Had Made Up My Mind To Go. I Was Thinking Today About The Calm I Felt When I Closed My Eyes And Let The Barber's Fingers Move Through My Hair, The Sweetness Of Those Fingers, The Hair Already Starting To Grow.

Honey, No Offense, But Sometimes I Think I Could Shoot You And Watch You Kick.

I Could Hear My Heart Beating. I Could Hear Everyone's Heart. I Could Hear The Human Noise We Sat There Making, Not One Of Us Moving, Not Even When The Room Went Dark.

You Have To Have Been In Love To Write Poetry.