I Myself Am Hell; Nobody's Here

Poetry Is Not The Record Of An Event: It Is An Event.

Their Monument Sticks Like A Fishbone In The City's Throat.

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot

I Will Catch Christ With A Greased Worm, And When The Prince Of Darkness Stalks My Bloodstream To Its Stygian Term . . . On Water The Man-fisher Walks.

And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.