Death Means You Are In The Third

This Last Night We Tear Into Each Other, As If To Wound, As If To Find The Key To Everything Before Morning.

Men Had Always Been The Reciters Of Poetry In The Desert.

Half A Page--and The Morning Is Already Ancient.

You Must Talk To Me, Caravaggio. Or Am I Just A Book? Something To Be Read, Some Creature To Be Tempted Out Of A Loch And Shot Full Of Morphine, Full Of Corridors, Lies, Loose Vegetation, Pockets Of Stones.

In Canada Pianos Needed Water. You Opened Up The Back And Left A Full Glass Of Water, And A Month Later The Glass Would Be Empty. Her Father Had Told Her About The Dwarfs Who Drank Only At Pianos, Never In Bars.