I Am A Collection Of Dismantled Almosts.

Craft Is A Trick You Make Up To Let You Write The Poem.

You Cutting The Lawn, Fixing The Machines, All This Leprous Day And Then More Vodka, More Soda And The Pond Forgiving Our Bodies, The Pond Sucking Out The Throb.

I Am Out Of Practice At Living. You Are As Brave As A Motorcycle.

My Sleeping Pill Is White. It Is A Splendid Pearl; It Floats Me Out Of Myself, My Stung Skin As Alien As A Loose Bolt Of Cloth.

Evil Is Maybe Lying To God. Or Better, Lying To Love.