The Eyes Of My Eyes Are Opened.

Peering From Some High Window; At The Gold Of November Sunset (and Feeling That If Day Has To Become Night This Is A Beautiful Way).

Meanwhile Myself Et Cetera Lay Quietly In The Deep Mud Et Cetera (dreaming, Et Cetera, Of Your Smile Eyes Knees And Of Your Etcetera.)

One Pierced Moment Whiter Than The Rest -turning From The Tremendous Lie Of Sleep I Watch The Roses Of The Day Grow Deep.

May My Mind Stroll About Hungry And Fearless And Thirsty And Supple And Even If Its Sunday May I Be Wrong For Whenever Men Are Right They Are Not Young

Someone Asked Me What Home Was And All I Could Think Of Were The Stars On The Tip Of Your Tongue, The Flowers Sprouting From Your Mouth, The Roots Entwined In The Gaps Between Your Fingers, The Ocean Echoing Inside Of Your Ribcage.