Beached Under The Spumy Blooms, We Lie

Secretly, In Studies And Attics And Schoolrooms All Over America, People Must Be Writing.

Before I Give My Body, I Must Give My Thoughts, My Mind, My Dreams.

I Hurl My Heart To Halt His Pace.

When They Asked Some Old Roman Philosopher Or Other How He Wanted To Die, He Said He Would Open His Veins In A Warm Bath. I Thought It Would Be Easy, Lying In The Tup And Seeing The Redness Flower From My Wrists, Flush After Flush Through The Clear Water, Till I Sank Into Sleep Under A Surface Gaudy As Poppies.

I've Eaten A Bag Of Green Apples. Boarded The Train, There's No Getting Off