Walk With The Dead For Fear Of

Deprivation Is For Me What Daffodils Were For Wordsworth.

I Have Wished You Something None Of The Others Would.

A Writer Once Said To Me, If You Ever Go To America, Go Either To The East Coast Or The West Coast: The Rest Is A Desert Full Of Bigots. That's What I Think I'd Like . . . A Version Of Pastoral.

Uncontradicting Solitude Supports Me On Its Giant Palm; And Like A Sea-anemone Or Simple Snail, There Cautiously Unfolds, Emerges, What I Am.

Everyone Should Be Forcibly Transplanted To Another Continent From Their Family At The Age Of Three.