We do not play on Graves— Because there isn't Room— Besides—it isn't even—it slants And People come— And put a Flower on it— And hang their faces so— We're fearing that their Hearts will drop— And crush our pretty play— And so we move as far As Enemies—away— Just looking round to see how far It is—Occasionally—

A great hope fell You heard no noise The ruin was within.

The Spirit lurks within the Flesh Like Tides within the Sea That make the Water live, estranged What would the Either be?

There is a pain so utter, it swallows being up; The covers the abyss with a trance So memory can step around, across, upon it.

A letter always seemed to me like immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend.

The appetite for silence is seldom an acquired taste.

Love is everything. And that's all we know about it.