But The Problem Is To Make The

The Wolf Howled Under The Leaves And Spit Out The Prettiest Feathers Of His Meal Of Fowl: Like Him I Consume Myself.

The Poet Makes Himself A Seer Through A Long, Vast And Painstaking Derangement Of All The Senses

Oh! If Only We Were Naked Now, And Free To Watch Our Protruding Parts Align; To Whisper - Both Of Us - In Ecstasy!

I Could Never Throw Love Out Of The Window.

Your Memory And Your Senses Will Be Nourishment For Your Creativity.