I Have A Black Look I Do

Poems Aren't Postcards To Send Home.

Bless All Useful Objects, The Spoons Made Of Bone, The Mattress I Cook My Dreams Upon, The Typewriter That Is My Church With An Altar Of Keys Always Waiting.

Frog Has No Nerves. Frog Is As Old As A Cockroach. Frog Is My Father's Genitals. Frog Is A Malformed Doorknob. Frog Is A Soft Bag Of Green.

I Am Not At Home In Myself. I Am My Own Stranger.

You See, We Live In A Cold Climate And Are Not Permitted To Kiss On The Street So I Made Up A Song That Wasn't True. I Made Up A Song Called Marriage.