The World Is Made Up Of Stories,

Not All Things Are Blest, But The Seeds Of All Things Are Blest.

I Remember Mother Saying : Inventors Are Like Poets, A Trashy Lot

I Am Haunted By Interrupted Acts, Introspective As A Leper, Enchanted By A Repulsive Clew, A Gross And Fugitive Movement Of The Limbs. Is This The Love That Shook The Lights To Flame?

Outrage And Possibility Are In All The Poems We Know.

I Speak To You. You Speak To Me. Is That Fragile?