Much that is beautiful must be discarded So that we may resemble a taller Impression of ourselves.

The soul establishes itself. But how far can it swim out through the eyes And still return safely to its nest?

I'm heading for a clean-named place like Wisconsin, and mad as a jack-o'-lantern, will get there without help and nosy proclivities.

Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you, At incredible speed, traveling day and night.

Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.

I write with experiences in mind, but I don't write about them, I write out of them.

Each servant stamps the reader with a look.