The Sheets Grow Heavy As A Lecher's

What Did My Arms Do Before They Held You?

I Talk To God But The Sky Is Empty.

I Had Removed My Patent Leather Shoes After A While, For They Foundered Badly In The Sand. It Pleased Me To Think They Would Be Perched There On The Silver Log, Pointing Out To Sea, Like A Sort Of Soul-compass, After I Was Dead.

Beached Under The Spumy Blooms, We Lie Sea-sick And Fever-dry.

I Lean To You, Numb As A Fossil. Tell Me I'm Here.