In A Dream You Are Never Eighty.

As It Has Been Said: Love And A Cough Cannot Be Concealed. Even A Small Cough. Even A Small Love.

The Windows, The Starving Windows That Drive The Trees Like Nails Into My Heart.

When They Turn The Sun On Again I'll Plant Children Under It, I'll Light Up My Soul With A Match And Let It Sing.

I'll Vacuum Up My Stale Hair, I'll Pay All My Neighbors' Bad Debts, I'll Write A Poem Called Yellow And Put My Lips Down To Drink It Up.

Saints Have No Moderation, Nor Do Poets, Just Exuberance.