Just A Turn Of The

My Best Acquaintances Are Those With Whom I Spoke No Word

They Address An Eclipse Every Morning, Whom They Call Their "father."

The Will Is Always Near, Dear, Though The Feet Vary.

After Great Pain, A Formal Feeling Comes — The Nerves Sit Ceremonious, Like Tombs — The Stiff Heart Questions Was It He, That Bore, And Yesterday, Or Centuries Before? The Feet, Mechanical, Go Round — Of Ground, Or Air, Or Ought — A Wooden Way Regardless Grown, A Quartz Contentment, Like A Stone — This Is The Hour Of Lead — Remembered, If Outlived, As Freezing Persons, Recollect The Snow — First — Chill — Then Stupor — Then The Letting Go —

I Hope You Love Birds Too. It Is Economical. It Saves Going To Heaven.