Love Your Self's Self Where

The Snow Has Quietness In It; No Songs, No Smells, No Shouts Or Traffic. When I Speak My Own Voice Shocks Me.

Well, One Gets Out Of Bed And The Planets Don't Always Hiss Or Muck Up The Day, Each Day.

Poor Thing. To Die And Never See Brooklyn.

One Can't Build Little White Picket Fences To Keep Nightmares Out.

I Would Like A Simple Life / Yet All Night I Am Laying / Poems Away In A Long Box.