After The Sunset On The Prairie, There

The Past Is A Bucket Of Ashes

The Moon Is A Friend For The Lonesome To Talk To.

Poetry Is The Journal Of A Sea Animal Living On Land, Wanting To Fly In The Air.

There Will Be A Rusty Gun On The Wall, Sweetheart, The Rifle Grooves Curling With Flakes Of Rust. A Spider Will Make A Silver String Nest In The Darkest, Warmest Corner Of It.

Freedom Is Baffling: Men Having It Often Know Not They Have It Till It Is Gone And They No Longer Have It.