History Is Where Tensions Were.

I Sometimes Talk About The Making Of A Poem Within The Poem.

The Spirit World Doesn't Admit To Communicating With Me, So It's Fairly Even.

Till I, High In The Tower Of My Time Among Familiar Ruins, Began To Cry For Accident, Sickness, Justice, War And Crime, Because All Died, Because I Had To Die. The Snow Fell, The Trees Stood, The Promise Kept, And A Child I Slept.

We Think About Sex Obsessively Except During The Act, When Our Minds Tend To Wander.

When In Still Air And Still In Summertime A Leaf Has Had Enough Of This, It Seems To Make Up Its Mind To Go; Fine As A Sage Its Drifting In Detachment Down The Road.