The Past Is Not A

This Is My Letter To The World, That Never Wrote To Me, The Simple News That Nature Told, With Tender Majesty. Her Message Is Committed, To Hands I Cannot See; For Love Of Her, Sweet Countrymen, Judge Tenderly Of Me.

Ample Make This Bed. Make This Bed With Awe; In It Wait Till Judgment Break Excellent And Fair. Be Its Mattress Straight, Be Its Pillow Round; Let No Sunrise’ Yellow Noise Interrupt This Ground.

God, Keep Me From What They Call 'households,'

I Have An Appetite For Silence.

I Dwell In Possibility A Fairer House Than Prose More Numerous Of Windows Superior — For Doors.