In Heaven We Are All Ghostwriters, If

Writing Free Verse Is Like Playing Tennis With The Net Down.

Only God And I Knew What I Meant When I Wrote It, Now Only God Knows

But Strictly Held By None, Is Loosely Bound By Countless Silken Ties Of Love And Thought To Everything On Earth The Compass Round, And Only By One's Going Slightly Taut In The Capriciousness Of Summer Air Is Of The Slightest Bondage Made Aware.

Lovers, Forget Your Love And List To The Love Of These She A Window Flower And He A Winter Breeze.

If The Day Ever Comes When They Know Who They Are, They May Know Better Where They Are.