We Talked For Hours. He Talked And

We All Write Poems; It Is Simply That Poets Are The Ones Who Write In Words.

Always We Try To Put The Wild In A Cage.

The World Began In Hazard And Will End In It.

Science Disembodies; Art Embodies.

I Am One In A Row Of Specimens. It's When I Try To Flutter Out Of Line That He Hates Me. I'm Meant To Be Dead, Pinned, Always The Same, Always Beautiful. He Knows That Part Of My Beauty Is Being Alive. But It's The Dead Me He Wants. He Wants Me Living-but-dead.