Everyone In Me Is A Bird I

The Snow Has Quietness In It; No Songs, No Smells, No Shouts Or Traffic. When I Speak My Own Voice Shocks Me.

I Would Like To Bury All The Hating Eyes Under The Sand Somewhere.

No One To Hate Except The Slim Fish Of Memory That Slides In And Out Of My Brain.

To Die Whole, Riddled With Nothing But Desire For It, Is Like Breakfast After Love.

We Talked Death With Burned-up Intensity, Both Of Us Drawn To It Like Moths To An Electric Light Bulb. Sucking On It!