The First Step In The

Is There A Mechanism Of Death, That So Mutilates Existence No One, Gets Over It Not Even The Dead?

When I Sleepwalk Into Your Room, And Pick You Up, And Hold You Up In The Moonlight, You Cling To Me Hard, As If Clinging Could Save Us. I Think You Think I Will Never Die, I Think I Exude To You The Permanence Of Smoke Or Stars, Even As My Broken Arms Heal Themselves Around You.

There Are Two Versions To Every Poem – The Crying Version And The Straight Version

Perhaps Poetry Will Be The Canary In The Mine-shaft Warning Us Of What's To Come.

Second-hand Gloves Will Become Lovely Again, Their Memories Are What Give Them The Need For Other Hands. And The Desolation Of Lovers Is The Same: That Enormous Emptiness Carved Out Of Such Tiny Beings As We Are Asks To Be Filled; The Need For The New Love Is Faithfulness To The Old.