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

Spring is like a perhaps hand

We can never be born enough.

Laughing is just another way of showing people your wise

Your homecoming will be my homecoming

worms are the words but joy's the voice

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands