There Is Rust In My Mouth,the Stain

I Have Forgiven All The Old Actors For Dying. A New One Comes On With The Same Lines, Like Large White Growths, In His Mouth. The Dancers Come On From The Wings, Perfectly Mated.

The Tongue, The Chinese Say, Is Like A Sharp Knife: It Kills Without Drawing Blood.

No One To Hate Except The Slim Fish Of Memory That Slides In And Out Of My Brain.

Take A Woman Talking, Purging Herself With Rhymes, Drumming Words Out Like A Typewriter, Planting Words In You Like Grass Seed. You'll Move Off.

The Soul Was Not Cured, It Was As Full As A Clothes Closet Of Dresses That Did Not Fit.