Give Me Your Hand Out Of The

The Typewriter Separated Me From A Deeper Intimacy With Poetry, And My Hand Brought Me Closer To That Intimacy Again.

I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair. Silent And Starving, I Prowl Through The Streets. Bread Does Not Nourish Me, Dawn Disrupts Me, All Day I Hunt For The Liquid Measure Of Your Steps.

Shyness Is A Condition Foreign To The Heart - A Category, A Dimension Which Leads To Loneliness.

Then Scale By Scale, We Strip Off The Delicacy And Eat The Peaceful Mush Of Its Green Heart.

The Truth Is In The Prolouge. Death To The Romantic Fool., The Expert In Solitary Confinement.