Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.

O starry night, This is how I want to die

The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is; the waves fold over each other; they are in love with themselves; sleeping in their own skin; and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.

Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.

One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.

It would be pleasant to be drunk.

I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.