For I Could Not Read Or Speak

You Lay, A Small Knuckle On My White Bed; Lay, That Fist Like A Snail, Small And Strong At My Breast. Your Lips Are Animals; You Are Fed With Love. At First, Hunger Is Not Wrong.

I Am In My Own Mind. I Am Locked In The Wrong House.

Yesterday I Did Not Want To Be Borrowed But This Is The Typewriter That Sits Before Me And Love Is Where Yesterday Is At.

Put Your Mouthful Of Words Away And Come With Me To Watch The Lilies Open In Such A Field, Growing There Like Yachts, Slowly Steering Their Petals Without Nurses Or Clocks.

Everyone Has Left Me Except My Muse, That Good Nurse. She Stays In My Hand, A Mild White Mouse.