I Cried Over Beautiful Things, Knowing No

I Remember The Chillicothe Ballplayers Grappling The Long Island Ball Players In A Sixteen-inning Game Ended By Darkness. And The Shoulders Of The Chillicothe Players Were A Red Smoke Against The Sundown And The Shoulders Of The Rock Island Players Were A Yellow Smoke Against The Sundown. And The Umpire's Voice Was Hoarse Calling Balls And Strikes And Outs And The Umpire's Throat Fought In The Dust For A Song.

Time Is A Great Teacher, Who Can Live Without Hope?

Poetry Is A Type-font Design For An Alphabet Of Fun, Hate, Love, Death.

Poetry Is A Plan For A Slit In The Face Of A Bronze Fountain Goat And The Path Of Fresh Drinking Water.

Lay Me On An Anvil, O God. Beat Me And Hammer Me Into A Steel Spike.