When I Start Writing A

Exhaust The Little Moment / Soon It Dies.

And If Sun Comes / How Shall We Greet Him? / Shall We Not Dread Him, / Shall We Not Fear Him / After So Lengthy A / Session With Shade?

Each Body Has Its Art.

Already I Am No Longer Looked At With Lechery Or Love.

As You Get Older, You Find That Often The Wheat, Disentangling Itself From The Chaff, Comes Out To Meet You.