The Only Certain Freedom's In Departure.

Such Heaps Of Broken Glass To Sweep Away / You'd Think The Inner Dome Of Heaven Had Fallen.

I Fail To See What Fun, What Satisfaction / A God Can Find In Laughing At How Badly / Men Fumble At The Possibilities.

When I Was Young My Teachers Were The Old. I Gave Up Fire For Form Till I Was Cold.

Poets Are Like Baseball Pitchers. Both Have Their Moments. The Intervals Are The Tough Things.

A Voice Said, Look Me In The Stars And Tell Me Truly, Men Of Earth, If All The Soul-and-body Scars Were Not Too Much To Pay For Birth.