I Work All Day, And Get Half-drunk

Slowly Light Strengthens, And The Room Takes Shape. It Stands Plain As A Wardrobe, What We Know, Have Always Known, Know That We Can't Escape, Yet Can't Accept. One Side Will Have To Go. Meanwhile Telephones Crouch, Getting Ready To Ring In Locked-up Offices, And All The Uncaring Intricate Rented World Begins To Rouse. The Sky Is White As Clay, With No Sun. Work Has To Be Done. Postmen Like Doctors Go From House To House.

Clearly Money Has Something To Do With Life.

What Are Days For? Days Are Where We Live.

The Breath That Sharpens Life Is Life Itself.

To Write You Must Be Warm, Fed, Loved And Sober.