Deeds Cannot Dream What Dreams Can Do

In Just - Spring When The World Is Mud- Luscious The Little Lame Balloonman Whistles Far And Wee

The Mind Is Its Own Beautiful Prisoner. Mind Looked Long At The Sticky Moon Opening In Dusk Her New Wings Then Decently Hanged Himself,one Afternoon. The Last Thing He Saw Was You Naked Amid Unnaked Things.

(and From My Thighs Which Shrug And Pant A Murdering Rain Leapingly Reaches The Upward Singular Deepest Flower Which She Carries In A Gesture Of Her Hips)

One Pierced Moment Whiter Than The Rest -turning From The Tremendous Lie Of Sleep I Watch The Roses Of The Day Grow Deep.

The Other Guineahen Died Of A Broken Heart And We Came To New York. I Used To Sit At A Table,drawing Wings With A Pencil That Kept Breaking And I Kept Remembering How Your Mind Looked When It Slept For Several Years,to Wake Up Asking Why. So Then You Turned Into A Photograph Of Somebody Who’s Trying Not To Laugh At Somebody Who’s Trying Not To Cry