Poetry Is A Language In Which Man

Indulgences, Not Fulfillment, Is What The World Permits Us.

The Skirts Of The Gods Drag In Our Mud. We Feel The Touch And Take It To Be A Kiss.

There May Always Be Another Reality To Make Fiction Of The Truth We Think We've Arrived At.

How Nature Loves The Incomplete. She Knows If She Drew A Conclusion It Would Finish Her.

If We Could Wake Each Morning With No Memory Of Living Before We Went To Sleep, We Might Arrive At A Faultless Day.