And If I Tried To Give You

At Six I Lived In A Graveyard Full Of Dolls, Avoiding Myself, My Body, The Suspect In Its Grotesque House.

If You Meet A Cross-eyed Person You Must Plunge Into The Grass, Alongside The Chilly Ants, Fish Through The Green Fingernails And Come Up With The Four-leaf Clover.

I Brush My Hair, Waiting In The Pain Machine For My Bones To Get Hard, For The Soft, Soft Bones That Were Laid Apart And Were Screwed Together. They Will Knit. And The Other Corpse, The Fractured Heart, I Feed It Piecemeal, Little Chalice. I'm Good To It.

I'm The Crazy One Who Thinks That Words Reach People.

We Talked Death With Burned-up Intensity, Both Of Us Drawn To It Like Moths To An Electric Light Bulb. Sucking On It!