Pile The Bodies High At Austerlitz And

After The Sunset On The Prairie, There Are Only The Stars

Now I Am Here - Now Read Me - Give Me A Name.

Time Is A Sandpile We Run Our Fingers In.

Poetry Is A Slipknot Tightened Around A Time-beat Of One Thought, Two Thoughts, And A Last Interweaving Thought There Is Not Yet A Number For.

Poetry Is An Art Practiced With The Terribly Plastic Material Of Human Language.