Love Your Self's Self Where It Lives.

Our Checks Are Pale. Our Wallets Are Invalids. Past Due, Past Due, Is What Our Bills Are Saying And Yet We Kiss In Every Corner, Scuffing The Dust And The Cat. Love Rises Like Bread As We Go Bust.

It's A Little Mad, But I Believe I Am Many People. When I Am Writing A Poem, I Feel I Am The Person Who Should Have Written It.

I See Myself As One Would See Another. I Have Been Cut In Two.

When They Turn The Sun On Again I'll Plant Children Under It, I'll Light Up My Soul With A Match And Let It Sing.

The Little Girl Skipped By Under The Wrinkled Oak Leaves And Held Fast To A Replica Of Herself.