Live In The Layers, Not On The

You Must Be Careful Not To Deprive The Poem Of Its Wild Origin.

It Is My Heart That's Late, It Is My Song That's Flown.

How Shall The Heart Be Reconciled / To Its Feast Of Losses?

Deftly They Opened The Brain Of A Child, And It Was Full Of Flying Dreams.

What Makes The Engine Go? Desire, Desire, Desire.