Poetry Is My Life, My Postmark, My

... And My Love Stays Bitterly Glowing, Spasms Of It Will Not Sleep, And I Am Helpless And Thirsty And Need Shade But There Is No One To Cover Me- Not Even God.

The Snow Has Quietness In It; No Songs, No Smells, No Shouts Or Traffic. When I Speak My Own Voice Shocks Me.

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

Depression Is Boring, I Think And I Would Do Better To Make Some Soup And Light Up The Cave.

Suicides Have A Special Language. Like Carpenters They Want To Know Which Tools. They Never Ask Why Build.