There Are Not Too Many Fables About

Hinged To Forgetfulness Like A Door, She Slowly Closed Out Of Sight, And She Was The Woman I Loved, But Too Many Times She Slept Like A Mechanical Deer In My Caresses, And I Ached In The Metal Silence Of Her Dreams.

I Believe I Saw A Woodcock. He Had A Long Bill Like Putting A Fire Hydrant Into A Pencil Sharpener, Then Pasting It Onto A Bird And Letting The Bird Fly Away In Front Of Me With This Thing On Its Face For No Other Purpose Than To Amaze Me.

Night Was Coming On In, Borrowing The Light. It Had Started Out Borrowing Just A Few Cents Worth Of The Light, But Now It Was Borrowing Thousands Of Dollars Worth Of The Light Every Second. The Light Would Soon Be Gone, The Bank Closed, The Tellers Unemployed, The Bank President A Suicide.

Elizabeth's Voice Had A Door In It. When You Opened That Door You Found Another Door, And That Door Opened Yet Another Door. All The Doors Were Nice And Led Out Of Her.

Finding Is Losing Something Else. I Think About, Perhaps Even Mourn, What I Lost To Find This