Our Eyes Are Full Of Terrible Confessions.

All Who Love Have Lied.

Yet Love Enters My Blood Like An I.v., Dripping In Its Little White Moments.

Suicide Is, After All, The Opposite Of The Poem.

Inside Many Of Us Is A Small Old Man Who Wants To Get Out.

Daylight Is Nobody's Friend. God Comes In Like A Landlord And Flashes On His Brassy Lamp.