-tomorrow Is Our Permanent Address And There

If At The End Of Your First Ten Or Fifteen Years Of Fighting And Working And Feeling, You Find You've Written One Line Of One Poem, You'll Be Very Lucky Indeed.

Anyone Lived In A Pretty How Town (with Up So Floating Many Bells Down) Spring Summer Autumn Winter He Sang His Didn't He Danced His Did.

I Imagine That Yes Is The Only Living Thing.

The Mind Is Its Own Beautiful Prisoner. Mind Looked Long At The Sticky Moon Opening In Dusk Her New Wings Then Decently Hanged Himself,one Afternoon. The Last Thing He Saw Was You Naked Amid Unnaked Things.

Buffalo Bill's Defunct Who Used To Ride A Watersmooth-silver Stallion And Break Onetwothreefourfive Pigeonsjustlikethat Jesus He Was A Handsome Man And What I Want To Know Is How Do You Like Your Blueeyed Boy Mister Death