I hope to leave behind a few poems it will be hard to get rid of.

I pressed her thigh and death smiled.

Windows work two ways, mirrors one way. You never walk through mirrors or swim through windows.

There may be a time when we'll attend Weather Theaters to recall the sensation of rain.

I am troubled, immeasurably by your eyes. I am struck by the feather of your soft reply. The sound of glass speaks quick, disdain and conceals what your eyes fight to explain.

Most of the press were vultures descending on the scene for curious America aplomb. Cameras inside the coffin interviewing worms.