I'm Happier Writing About Doctors Than I

That Afternoon My Mother Had Brought Me The Roses. "save Them For My Funeral," I'd Said.

I Have Stitched Life Into Me Like A Rare Organ

And You Grit Your Teeth, Despising Yourself For Your Tremulous Sensitivity, And Wondering How Human Beings Can Suffer Their Individualities To Be Mercilessly Crushed Under A Machinelike Dictatorship, Be It Of Industry, State Or Organization, All Their Lives Long.

Stars Open Among The Lilies. Are You Not Blinded By Such Expressionless Sirens? This Is The Silence Of Astounded Souls.

What Did My Arms Do Before They Held You?