Eleven Months. Now She's Gone Gone As

One More Drink And You're Dead. This Is No Way To Talk To A Suicide Head.

I Guess We Often Get The Deep Blues, Both Of Us, And Wonder What It All Means- The People, The Buildings, The Day By Day Things, The Waste Of Time, Of Ourselves.

And Love Is A Word Used Too Much And Much Too Soon.

There Is Something About Writing Poetry That Brings A Man Close To The Cliff's Edge.

That's How It Is With Books, Isn't It: They're Not In A Hurry. They'll Wait For You Till You're Ready. People Empty Me. I Have To Go Away To Refill.