You shall above all things be glad and young.

maybe god is a child ‘s hand)very carefully bring -ing to you and to me(and quite with out crushing)the papery weightless diminutive world with a hole in it out of which demons with wings would be streaming if something had(maybe they couldn’t agree)not happened(and floating- ly int o

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

Your head is a living forest full of songbirds.

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me), It's always our self we find in the sea.

in a middle of a room stands a suicide sniffing a Paper rose smiling to a self "somewhere it is Spring and sometimes people are in real:imagine somewhere real flowers,but I can't imagine real flowers for if I could,they would somehow not Be real" (so he smiles smiling)"but I will not everywhere be real to you in a moment" The is blond with small hands "& everything is easier than I had guessed everything would be;even remembering the way who looked at whom first,anyhow dancing