Sometimes The Soul Takes Pictures Of Things

Today God Gives Milk / And I Have The Pail.

Thumbs Grow Into My Throat. I Wear Slaps Like A Spot Of Rouge.

This Is What Poems Are: With Mercy For The Greedy, They Are The Tongue's Wrangle, The World's Pottage, The Rat's Star.

Only My Books Anoint Me, And A Few Friends, Those Who Reach Into My Veins.

Our Children Tremble In Their Teen-age Cribs, Whirling Off On A Thumb Or A Motorcycle.