It Is My Heart That's Late, It

When They Shall Paint Our Sockets Gray And Light Us Like A Stinking Fuse, Remember That We Once Could Say, Yesterday We Had A World To Lose.

The Heart Breaks And Breaks And Lives By Breaking It Is Necessary To Go Through Dark And Deeper Dark And Not To Turn

What Makes The Engine Go? Desire, Desire, Desire.

I Dance/for The Joy Of Surviving, At The Edge Of The Road.

A Poem Has Secrets That The Poet Knows Nothing Of.