I Imitatea Memory Of Beliefthat I Do

The Heart, This Child Of Myself That Resides In The Flesh, This Ultimate Signature Of The Me, The Start Of My Blindness And Sleep, Builds A Death Crèche.

Jesus Saw The Multitudes Were Hungry And He Said, Oh Lord, Send Down A Short-order Cook.

In A Dream You Are Never Eighty.

It Doesn't Matter Who My Father Was; It Matters Who I Remember He Was.

Craft Is A Trick You Make Up To Let You Write The Poem.