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Rats live on no evil star
Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.
As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
The joy that isn't shared dies young.
God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
Even without wars, life is dangerous.
Need is not quite belief.
God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.
I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.
I am in my own mind. _x000D_ I am locked in the wrong house.
I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving; _x000D_ then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.
I've grown tired of love _x000D_ You are the trouble with me _x000D_ I watch you walk right by
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