Images Are The Heart Of Poetry ...

The Windows, The Starving Windows That Drive The Trees Like Nails Into My Heart.

When The Cow Gives Blood And The Christ Is Born We Must All Eat Sacrifices. We Must All Eat Beautiful Women.

Father, You Died Once, Salted Down At Fifty-nine, Packed Down Like A Big Snow Angel, Wasn't That Enough?

With This Pen I Take In Hand My Selves And With These Dead Disciples I Will Grapple. Though Rain Curses The Window Let The Poem Be Made.

There Is No Word For Time. Today We Will Not Think To Number Another Summer Or Watch Its White Bird Into The Ground.