Life Has A Practice Of Living You,

The Trees Are Coming Into Leaf Like Something Almost Being Said.

Uncontradicting Solitude Supports Me On Its Giant Palm; And Like A Sea-anemone Or Simple Snail, There Cautiously Unfolds, Emerges, What I Am.

Slowly Light Strengthens, And The Room Takes Shape. It Stands Plain As A Wardrobe, What We Know, Have Always Known, Know That We Can't Escape, Yet Can't Accept. One Side Will Have To Go. Meanwhile Telephones Crouch, Getting Ready To Ring In Locked-up Offices, And All The Uncaring Intricate Rented World Begins To Rouse. The Sky Is White As Clay, With No Sun. Work Has To Be Done. Postmen Like Doctors Go From House To House.

Why Should I Let The Toad Work Squat On My Life? Can't I Use My Wit As A Pitchfork And Drive The Brute Off? Six Days Of The Week It Soils With Its Sickening Poison-- Just For Paying A Few Bills! That's Out Of Proportion.

I Think Writing About Unhappiness Is Probably The Source Of My Popularity, If I Have Any - After All, Most People Are Unhappy, Don't You Think?