It Is June. I Am Tired Of

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

The Little Girl Skipped By Under The Wrinkled Oak Leaves And Held Fast To A Replica Of Herself.

You Who Have Inhabited Me In The Deepest And Most Broken Place, Are Going, Going

Of Course The New Testament Is Very Small. Its Mouth Opens Four Times As Out-of-date As A Prehistoric Monster, Yet Somehow Man-made.

For I Could Not Read Or Speak And On The Long Nights I Could Not Turn The Moon Off Or Count The Lights Of Cars Across The Ceiling.