Love Is A Clash Of Lightnings

And What Has Become Of It, Where Is That Onetime Love? Now It Is The Grave Of A Bird, A Drop Of Black Quartz, A Chunk Of Wood Eroded By The Rain.

Peace Goes Into The Making Of A Poem As Flour Goes Into The Making Of Bread.

The Truth Is In The Prolouge. Death To The Romantic Fool., The Expert In Solitary Confinement.

I Was The Owner Of My Own Darkness.

I Want To Do To You What Spring Does With The Cherry Trees.