Imagine A Painter Crucified By His Subject!

Silly Girls Your Heads Full Of Boys

The First Year Was Like Icing. Then The Cake Started To Show Through.

The Poem Is Sad Because It Wants To Be Yours, And Cannot Be.

It Is Written In The Book Of Usable Minutes That All Things Have Their Center In Their Dying.

The Sun Fades Like The Spreading Of A Peacock's Tail, As Though Twilight Might Be Read As A Warning To Those Desperate For Easy Solutions.