Oh, Darling, Let Your Body In, Let

Don't Bite Till You Know If It's Bread Or Stone.

I Said, The Poets Are There I Hear Them Singing And Lying Around Their Round Table And Around Me Still.

God Is Only Mocked By Believers.

I Find Now, Swallowing One Teaspoon Of Pain, That It Drops Downward To The Past Where It Mixes With Last Year’s Cupful And Downward Into A Decade’s Quart And Downward Into A Lifetime’s Ocean. I Alternate Treading Water And Deadman’s Float.

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