Ever Since I Got Married I've Been

What's The Furthest Corner? Because That's Where I Want To Be, Alone With The Only Thing That I Love.

Death, Lonely Death, Beneath The Withered Leaves.

I Put My Head Out Of My Window And See How Much The Wind’s Knife Wants To Slice It Off. On This Unseen Guillotine, I’ve Placed The Eyeless Head Of All My Desires.

What Shall I Say About Poetry? What Shall I Say About Those Clouds, Or About The Sky? Look; Look At Them; Look At It! And Nothing More. Don't You Understand Anything About Poetry? Leave That To The Critics And The Professors. For Neither You, Nor I, Nor Any Poet Knows What Poetry Is.

There Is Nothing More Poetic And Terrible Than The Skyscrapers' Battle With The Heavens That Cover Them. Snow, Rain, And Mist Highlight, Drench, Or Conceal The Vast Towers, But Those Towers, Hostile To Mystery And Blind To Any Sort Of Play, Shear Off The Rain's Tresses And Shine Their Three Thousand Swords Through The Soft Swan Of The Fog.