Father, You Died Once, Salted Down At

Poetry Is My Life, My Postmark, My Hands, My Kitchen, My Face.

Not That It Was Beautiful, But That I Found Some Order There.

The Sea Is Mother-death And She Is A Mighty Female, The One Who Wins, The One Who Sucks Us All Up.

The Day Of Fire Is Coming, The Thrush Will Fly Ablaze Like A Little Sky Rocket.

I Must Always Forget How One Word Is Able To Pick Out Another, To Manner Another, Until I Have Got Something I Might Have Said... But Did Not.