The Saints Come, As Human As A

Take Adultery Or Theft. Merely Sins. It Is Evil Who Dines On The Soul, Stretching Out Its Long Bone Tongue. It Is Evil Who Tweezers My Heart, Picking Out Its Atomic Worms.

Suicides Have A Special Language. Like Carpenters They Want To Know Which Tools. They Never Ask Why Build.

Yesterday I Did Not Want To Be Borrowed But This Is The Typewriter That Sits Before Me And Love Is Where Yesterday Is At.

Mood Can Be As Important As Sense.

There Is Joy In All: In The Hair I Brush Each Morning, In The Cannon Towel, Newly Washed, That I Rub My Body With Each Morning.