Lay Me On An Anvil, O God.

Poetry Is A Shuffling Of Boxes Of Illusions Buckled With A Strap Of Facts.

Poetry Is An Echo, Asking A Shadow To Dance.

Let A Joy Keep You. Reach Out Your Hands And Take It When It Runs By.

By Night The Skyscraper Looms In The Smoke And The Stars And Has A Soul.

Somebody's Little Girl- How Easy It Is To Make A Sob Story Over Who She Once Was And Who She Now Is.