Writers Serve As The Memory Of A

There Was Only Silence. It Was The Silence Of Matter Caught In The Act And Embarrassed. There Were No Cells Moving, And Yet There Were Cells. I Could See The Shape Of The Land, How It Lay Holding Silence. Its Poise And Its Stillness Were Unendurable, Like The Ring Of The Silence You Hear In Your Skull When You're Little And Notice You're Living The Ring Which Resumes Later In Life When You're Sick.

I Couldn't Unpeach The Peaches.

Are You Living Just A Little And Calling That Life?

We Still And Always Want Waking.

There Is No Shortage Of Good Days. It Is Good Lives That Are Hard To Come By.