The Future Is A Fog That Is

I Was Spread Out Dailyand Examined For Flaws.

When I'm Writing, I Know I'm Doing The Thing I Was Born To Do.

I Who Was A House Full Of Bowel Movement, I Who Was A Defaced Altar, I Who Wanted To Crawl Toward God Could Not Move Nor Eat Bread.

My Faith Is A Great Weight Hung On A Small Wire, As Doth The Spider Hang Her Baby On A Thin Web.

Though Rain Curses The Window Let The Poem Be Made.