Being Sixteen In The Pants I Died

The Windows, The Starving Windows That Drive The Trees Like Nails Into My Heart.

Poetry Is My Life, My Postmark, My Hands, My Kitchen, My Face.

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.

Abundance Is Scooped From Abundance Yet Abundance Remains.

Please God, We're All Right Here. Please Leave Us Alone. Don't Send Death In His Fat Red Suit And His Ho-ho Baritone.