At Six I Lived In A Graveyard

One Of My Secret Instructions To Myself As A Poet Is "whatever You Do, Don't Be Boring."

Then All This Became History. Your Hand Found Mine. Life Rushed To My Fingers Like A Blood Clot. Oh, My Carpenter, The Fingers Are Rebuilt. They Dance With Yours.

Earth, Earthriding Your Merry-go-roundtoward Extinction,right To The Rootsthickening The Oceans Like Gravy,festering In Your Caves,you Are Becoming A Latrine.

Now, In My Middle Age, About Nineteen In The Head I'd Say, I Am Rowing, I Am Rowing.

Thumbs Grow Into My Throat. I Wear Slaps Like A Spot Of Rouge.