Someone Is Dead. Even The Trees Know

This Is What Poems Are: With Mercy For The Greedy, They Are The Tongue's Wrangle, The World's Pottage, The Rat's Star.

All I Am Is The Trick Of Words Writing Themselves.

Though Rain Curses The Window Let The Poem Be Made.

I Think Of Myself As Writing For One Person, That One Perfect Reader Who Understands And Loves.

The Sky Breaks. It Sags And Breathes Upon My Face. In The Presence Of Mine Enemies, Mine Enemies The World Is Full Of Enemies. There Is No Safe Place.