My Death From The Wrists,

Craft Is A Trick You Make Up To Let You Write The Poem.

Don't Bite Till You Know If It's Bread Or Stone.

I Have Been Cut In Two.

Our Checks Are Pale. Our Wallets Are Invalids. Past Due, Past Due, Is What Our Bills Are Saying And Yet We Kiss In Every Corner, Scuffing The Dust And The Cat. Love Rises Like Bread As We Go Bust.

Saints Have No Moderation, Nor Do Poets, Just Exuberance.