...that brief sweet hour when the fury of intrigue waits...

The first faint years of us gather on the hillside...

I need a wire harness for my neck and all things blown akimbo...

a song about a boy whose first act of love was a broken window...

Each morning in the blackness I hear Bella...

In a blizzard, when a firetruck whinnies away like a spooked horse...

My mother would not have it so.

There are no people here just corpuscle and womb...

I would prefer my arms as long as Cleveland...