Psychiatry Is A Dirty Mirror.

All The Oxygen Of The World Was In Them. All The Feet Of The Babies Of The World Were In Them. All The Crotches Of The Angels Of The World Were In Them. All The Morning Kisses Of Philadelphia Were In Them.

My Objects Dream And Wear New Costumes, Compelled To, It Seems, By All The Words In My Hands And The Sea That Bangs In My Throat.

I Would Like To Think That No One Would Die Anymore If We All Believed In Daisies But The Worms Know Better, Don't They? They Slide Into The Ear Of A Corpse And Listen To His Great Sigh.

I Am In My Own Mind. I Am Locked In The Wrong House.

Craft Is A Trick You Make Up To Let You Write The Poem.