Prose Is Walking; Poetry Is Flying

Kiss The Mouth Which Tells You, Here, Here Is The World. This Mouth. This Laughter. These Temple Bones.

The First Step... Shall Be To Lose The Way.

Sometimes It Is Necessary To Reteach A Thing Its Loveliness

Little Sleep's-head Sprouting Hair In The Moonlight, When I Come Back We Will Go Out Together, We Will Walk Out Together Among, The Ten Thousand Things, Each Scratched Too Late With Such Knowledge, The Wages Of Dying Is Love.

When I Sleepwalk Into Your Room, And Pick You Up, And Hold You Up In The Moonlight, You Cling To Me Hard, As If Clinging Could Save Us. I Think You Think I Will Never Die, I Think I Exude To You The Permanence Of Smoke Or Stars, Even As My Broken Arms Heal Themselves Around You.