My Worst Habit Is My Fear &

If I Rest, If I Think Inward, I Go Mad.

I Find That In A Novel I Can Get More Of Life, Perhaps Not Such Intense Life, But Certainly More Of Life Than In Poetry.

The Claw Of The Magnolia, Drunk On Its Own Scents, Asks Nothing Of Life.

I Started Adding Up All The Things I Couldn't Do.

Bright Beads Of Red Are Rising Through The Ink, Hearts-blood Bubbles Smearing Out Into The Black Stream