I've Done As Many As 20 Or

There Is No Answer. It's Okay. But Even If It Wasn't Okay, What Am I Supposed To Do?

You Have To Have Been In Love To Write Poetry.

But He Stays By The Window, Remembering That Life. They Had Laughed. They Had Leaned On Each Other And Laughed Until The Tears Had Come, While Everything Else—the Cold And Where He'd Go In It—was Outside, For A While Anyway.

You're A Beautiful Drunk, Daughter. But You're A Drunk.

That Was In Crescent City, California, Up Near The Oregon Border. I Left Soon After. But Today I Was Thinking Of That Place, Of Crescent City, And Of How I Was Trying Out A New Life There With My Wife, And How, In The Barber's Chair That Morning, I Had Made Up My Mind To Go. I Was Thinking Today About The Calm I Felt When I Closed My Eyes And Let The Barber's Fingers Move Through My Hair, The Sweetness Of Those Fingers, The Hair Already Starting To Grow.