It Never Occurred To Me To Say

With That Strange Knowing That Comes Over Me, Like A Clairvoyance, I Know That I Am Sure Of Myself And My Enormous And Alarmingly Timeless Love For You; Which Will Always Be.

Love Is The Bone And Sinew Of My Curse.

But When I Took Up My Pen, My Hand Made Big, Jerky Letters Like Those Of A Child, And The Lines Sloped Down The Page From Left To Right Horizontally, As If They Were Loops Of String Lying On The Paper, And Someone Had Come Along And Blown Them Askew.

I've Eaten A Bag Of Green Apples. Boarded The Train, There's No Getting Off

But Writing Poems And Letters Doesn't Seem To Do Much Good.