The Sea Is Mother-death And

I Rot On The Wall, My Own Dorian Gray.

It Is In The Small Things We See It. The Child's First Step, As Awesome As An Earthquake. The First Time You Rode A Bike, Wallowing Up The Sidewalk.

And The Aura Of You Remains, Remains, Remains...

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

The Little Girl Skipped By Under The Wrinkled Oak Leaves And Held Fast To A Replica Of Herself.