When They Shall Paint Our

How Shall The Heart Be Reconciled / To Its Feast Of Losses?

What Makes The Engine Go? Desire, Desire, Desire.

When They Shall Paint Our Sockets Gray And Light Us Like A Stinking Fuse, Remember That We Once Could Say, Yesterday We Had A World To Lose.

The Unconscious Creates, The Ego Edits.

Some Poems Present Themselves As Cliffs That Need To Be Climbed. Others Are So Defensive That When You Approach Their Enclosure You Half Expect To Be Met By A Snarling Dog At The Gate. Still Others Want To Smother You With Their Sticky Charms.