There Is No Word For

I Am Younger Each Year At The First Snow.

I Would Sell My Life To Avoid The Pain That Begins In The Crib With Its Bars Or Perhaps With Your First Breath When The Planets Drill Your Future Into You.

The Beautiful Feeling After Writing A Poem Is On The Whole Better Even Than After Sex, And That's Saying A Lot.

Give Me Your Skin As Sheer As A Cobweb, Let Me Open It Up And Listen In And Scoop Out The Dark.

It's All A Matter Of History. Brandy Is No Solace. Librium Only Lies Me Down Like A Dead Snow Queen. Yes! I Am Still The Criminal.