Bike Downtown, Stick Out Tongues At The

Once I Was Beautiful. Now I Am Myself, Counting This Row And That Row Of Moccasins Waiting On The Silent Shelf.

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

Nature Is Full Of Teeth That Come In One By One, Then Decay, Fall Out.

I Am So Imperfect, Can You Love Me When Really My Soul Is Deformed? Will You Love Me Anyhow?

But Suicides Have A Special Language. Like Carpenters They Want To Know Which Tools. They Never Ask Why Build. Twice I Have So Simply Declared Myself, Have Possessed The Enemy, Eaten The Enemy, Have Taken On His Craft, His Magic.