Winter Dawn Is The Color Of Metal,

What I Fear Most, I Think, Is The Death Of The Imagination.

A Little Thing, Like Children Putting Flowers In My Hair, Can Fill Up The Widening Cracks In My Self-assurance Like Soothing Lanolin.

I Am Myself. That Is Not Enough.

Backward We Traveled To Reclaim The Day Before We Fell, Like Icarus, Undone; All We Find Are Altars In Decay And Profane Words Scrawled Black Across The Sun.

As A Poet, One Lives A Bit On Air. I Always Like Someone Who Can Teach Me Something Practical.