I Wonder If The Artist Ever Lives

I Cannot Walk An Inch / Without Trying To Walk To God.

I Rot On The Wall, My Own Dorian Gray.

Put Your Mouthful Of Words Away And Come With Me To Watch The Lilies Open In Such A Field, Growing There Like Yachts, Slowly Steering Their Petals Without Nurses Or Clocks.

O Yellow Eye, Let Me Be Sick With Your Heat, Let Me Be Feverish And Frowning.

When I'm Writing, I Know I'm Doing The Thing I Was Born To Do.