This Is No Book. Whoever Touches This

As A Bathtub Lined With White Porcelain, When The Hot Water Gives Out Or Goes Tepid, So Is The Slow Cooling Of Our Chivalrous Passion, O My Much Praised But-not-altogether-satisfactory Lady.

I Could I Trust Starve Like A Gentleman. It's Listed As Part Of The Poetic Training, You Know.

I Would Hold The Rosy, Slender Fingers Of The Dawn For You.

The Difference Between A Gun And A Tree Is A Difference Of Tempo. The Tree Explodes Every Spring.

No Verse Is Libre For The Man Who Wants To Do A Good Job.