One Can't Build Little White Picket Fences

For I Could Not Read Or Speak And On The Long Nights I Could Not Turn The Moon Off Or Count The Lights Of Cars Across The Ceiling.

There Is Rust In My Mouth,the Stain Of An Old Kiss.

Of Course The New Testament Is Very Small. Its Mouth Opens Four Times As Out-of-date As A Prehistoric Monster, Yet Somehow Man-made.

The Beautiful Feeling After Writing A Poem Is On The Whole Better Even Than After Sex, And That's Saying A Lot.

Only My Books Anoint Me, And A Few Friends, Those Who Reach Into My Veins.