Work Is Its Own Cure. You Have

I Mourn In Grey, Grey As The Sleeted Wind The Bled Shades Of Twilight, Gunmetal, Battleships, Industrial Paint.

The Work Of The World Is Common As Mud.

Troubles Cured You Salty As A Country Ham, Smoky To The Taste, Thick-skinned And Tender Inside.

The Sense Of Being Jewish Never Left Me, But When My Grandmother Died, I Rebelled Against Judaism As I Knew It Then, Which Was Orthodox. I Saw The Rituals, A Lot Of Them, As Very Male, For A Long Time.

Sleeping Together Is A Euphemism For People, But Tantamount To Marriage With Cats.