Man Is A Bird Full

I Grow Old On My Bitterness.

Our Eyes Are Full Of Terrible Confessions.

Blind With Love, My Daughter Has Cried Nightly For Horses, Those Long-necked Marchers And Churners That She Has Mastered, Any And All, Reigning Them In Like A Circus Hand.

Fear / A Motor, / Pumps Me Around And Around / Until I Fade Slowly.

The Stars Are Pears That No One Can Reach, Even For A Wedding. Perhaps For A Death.