Poets Are Sitting In My Kitchen. Why

To Die Whole, Riddled With Nothing But Desire For It, Is Like Breakfast After Love.

The Joy That Isn't Shared Dies Young.

Poor Thing. To Die And Never See Brooklyn.

Sometimes The Soul Takes Pictures Of Things It Has Wished For, But Never Seen.

I Can Only Sign Over Everything, The House, The Dog, The Ladders, The Jewels, The Soul, The Family Tree, The Mailbox. Then I Can Sleep. Maybe.