When I'm Writing, I Know I'm Doing

And What Of The Dead? They Lie Without Shoes In The Stone Boats. They Are More Like Stone Than The Sea Would Be If It Stopped. They Refuse To Be Blessed, Throat, Eye And Knucklebone.

Loving Me With My Shoes Off Means Loving My Long Brown Legs, Sweet Dears, As Good As Spoons; And My Feet, Those Two Children Let Out To Play Naked.

Our Checks Are Pale. Our Wallets Are Invalids. Past Due, Past Due, Is What Our Bills Are Saying And Yet We Kiss In Every Corner, Scuffing The Dust And The Cat. Love Rises Like Bread As We Go Bust.

The Ground Has On Its Clothes. The Trees Poke Out Of Sheets And Each Branch Wears The Sock Of God.

Suicides Have A Special Language. Like Carpenters They Want To Know Which Tools. They Never Ask Why Build.