It begins as a creaking, a sort of ache
The skyline bristles, the sky behind is red
The gate will not rest
Grave men, who when near death, see with a sharper light
The magic of the persistent question
I am not sure if I'm still here
The without eye, the tongue within
There are walls that stand and walls that will crumble
Why the giraffe? Why the elephant?
He pulls at the cloth and cups spill
Sucking the decayed breasts of death
There are leaves on the water, but the water is pink
He spreads his knees, he laughs
OK, let's go!
The soot that falls from dead cold chimneys
The ship of fools is in dock
Falling and Flying are the same: only the landing is different
My father in my mirror
Black book, blank book, blank look
Whose woods are these?
A confederacy of the delusional
I me a traveler, a simple soul, and quiet
That Easter I was late leaving, things to tidy up