If Youth Is A Defect, It Is

The Scythers, Time And Death, Helmed Locusts, Move Upon The Tree Of Breath

The World Is Absolutely Out Of Control Now And Is Not Going To Be Saved By Any Reason Or Unreason.

September Twenty-second, Sir, The Bough Cracks With Unpicked Apples, And At Dawn The Small-mouth Bass Breaks Water, Gorged With Spawn.

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot

We Feel The Machine Slipping From Our Hands As If Someone Else Were Steering; If We See Light At The End Of The Tunnel, It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.