I Don't Have A Very

The Fear Is For What Is Still To Be Lost.

That No One Dies Of Migraine Seems, To Someone Deep Into An Attack, An Ambiguous Blessing.

Hand That On Parting Squeezes Your Shoulder, Salutes The Small Of Your Back.

I Never Had Much Interest In Being A Child. As A Way Of Being It Seemed Flat, Failed To Engage.

Memories Are What You No Longer Want To Remember.