Poetry Is A Sort Of Homecoming.

Black Milk Of Daybreak We Drink It At Sundown.

Death Is A Master From Germany.

With Wine And Being Lost, With Less And Less Of Both: I Rode Through The Snow, Do You Read Me I Rode God Far--i Rode God Near, He Sang, It Was Our Last Ride Over The Hurdled Humans. They Cowered When They Heard Us Overhead, They Wrote, They Lied Our Neighing Into One Of Their Image-ridden Languages.

A Nothing We Were, Are, Shall Remain, Flowering: The Nothing--, The No One's Rose.

Spring: Trees Flying Up To Their Birds