Time cannot children,poets,lovers tell- measure imagine,mystery,a kiss -not though mankind would rather know than feel

I spill my bright incalculable soul

the other guineahen died of a broken heart and we came to New York. I used to sit at a table,drawing wings with a pencil that kept breaking and i kept remembering how your mind looked when it slept for several years,to wake up asking why. So then you turned into a photograph of somebody who’s trying not to laugh at somebody who’s trying not to cry

For surely as each November has its April, mysteries only are significant; and one mystery-of-mysteries creates them all: nothing false and possible is love (who's imagined,therefore limitless) love's to giving as to keeping's give; as yes is to if,love is to yes

for whenever men are right they are not young

they believe in Christ and Longfellow, both dead

-tomorrow is our permanent address and there they’ll scarcely find us(if they do, we’ll move away still further:into now