A Pretty Girl Who Is

All Nothing's Only Our Hugest Home; The Most Who Die, The More We Live

Guilt Is The Cause Of More Marauders Than History's Most Obscene Disauders

Who Knows If The Moon's / A Balloon, Coming Out Of A Keen City / In The Sky - Filled With Pretty People?

You Have Played, (i Think) And Broke The Toys You Were Fondest Of, And Are A Little Tired Now; Tired Of Things That Break, And— Just Tired. So Am I.

If At The End Of Your First Ten Or Fifteen Years Of Fighting And Working And Feeling, You Find You've Written One Line Of One Poem, You'll Be Very Lucky Indeed.