My Objects Dream And Wear New Costumes,

Evil Is Maybe Lying To God. Or Better, Lying To Love.

All I Am Is The Trick Of Words Writing Themselves.

I Am Younger Each Year At The First Snow.

Our Checks Are Pale. Our Wallets Are Invalids. Past Due, Past Due, Is What Our Bills Are Saying And Yet We Kiss In Every Corner, Scuffing The Dust And The Cat. Love Rises Like Bread As We Go Bust.

It Is June. I Am Tired Of Being Brave.