Walk With The Dead For Fear Of

Dear, I Can't Write, It's All A Fantasy: A Kind Of Circling Obsession.

What Are Days For? Days Are Where We Live.

Life Is First Boredom, Then Fear.

I'd Like To Think...that People In Pubs Would Talk About My Poems

It Becomes Still More Difficult To Find
words At Once True And Kind,
or Not Untrue And Not Unkind.