I Put The Gold Star Up In

Blind With Love, My Daughter Has Cried Nightly For Horses, Those Long-necked Marchers And Churners That She Has Mastered, Any And All, Reigning Them In Like A Circus Hand.

It Would Be Pleasant To Be Drunk.

Let God Be Some Tribal Female Who Is Known But Forbidden.

I Hoard Books. They Are People Who Do Not Leave.

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