Poetry Is Not The Record

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot

In The End, There Is No End.

Once Fishing Was A Rabbit's Foot-- O Wind Blow Cold, O Wind Blow Hot

In The End, Every Hypochondriac Is His Own Prophet.

We Feel The Machine Slipping From Our Hands As If Someone Else Were Steering; If We See Light At The End Of The Tunnel, It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.