I'll Die Propped Up In Bed Trying

Poetry Is A Section Of River-fog And Moving Boat-lights, Delivered Between Bridges And Whistles, So One Says, 'oh!' And Another, 'how?'

What If They Gave A War And Nobody Came?

I Cried Over Beautiful Things, Knowing No Beautiful Thing Lasts.

Poetry Is An Enumeration Of Birds, Bees, Babies, Butterflies, Bugs, Bambinos, Babayagas, And Bipeds, Beating Their Way Up Bewildering Bastions.

Enough Small Empty Boxes Thrown Into A Big Empty Box Fill It Full.