It Was As If A Morning-glory Had

Let There Be A Heaven So That Man May Outlive His Grasses.

I Am In My Own Mind. I Am Locked In The Wrong House.

I Would Sell My Life To Avoid The Pain That Begins In The Crib With Its Bars Or Perhaps With Your First Breath When The Planets Drill Your Future Into You.

I Grow Old On My Bitterness.

But Suicides Have A Special Language. Like Carpenters They Want To Know Which Tools. They Never Ask Why Build. Twice I Have So Simply Declared Myself, Have Possessed The Enemy, Eaten The Enemy, Have Taken On His Craft, His Magic.