The Painter Saw What Was, An Alternate

Direct Me Gods, Whose Changes Are All Holy, To Where It Flickers Deep In Grass, The Moly.

My Old Teacher's Definition Of Poetry Is An Attempt To Understand.

My Thoughts Are Crowded With Death And It Draws So Oddly On The Sexual That I Am Confused To Be Attracted By, In Effect, My Own Annihilation.

I Think Most Men, Heterosexual And Homosexual, Enjoy Being Considered Sexual Objects.

One Joins The Movement In A Valueless World, Choosing It, Till Both Hurler And The Hurled, One Moves As Well, Always Toward, Toward.