How You Die Out In Me: Down

The Language With Which I Make My Poems Has Nothing To Do With One Spoken Here, Or Anywhere.

There Was Earth Inside Them, And They Dug.

The Heart Hid Still In The Dark, Hard As The Philosophers Stone.

With Wine And Being Lost, With Less And Less Of Both: I Rode Through The Snow, Do You Read Me I Rode God Far--i Rode God Near, He Sang, It Was Our Last Ride Over The Hurdled Humans. They Cowered When They Heard Us Overhead, They Wrote, They Lied Our Neighing Into One Of Their Image-ridden Languages.

They've Healed Me To Pieces.