I Am Younger Each Year At The

Be Careful Of Words, / ... They Can Be Both Daisies And Bruises.

Let The Light Be Called Day So That Men May Grow Corn Or Take Busses.

Being Kissed On The Back Of The Knee Is A Moth At The Windowscreen.

The Heart, This Child Of Myself That Resides In The Flesh, This Ultimate Signature Of The Me, The Start Of My Blindness And Sleep, Builds A Death Crèche.

Yes, I Know. Death Sits With His Key In My Lock. Not One Day Is Taken For Granted. Even Nursery Rhymes Have Put Me In Hock.