The Little Girl Skipped By Under The

We Talked Death With Burned-up Intensity, Both Of Us Drawn To It Like Moths To An Electric Light Bulb. Sucking On It!

The Boys And Girls Are One Tonight. They Unbutton Blouses. They Unzip Flies. They Take Off Shoes. They Turn Off The Light. The Glimmering Creatures Are Full Of Lies. They Are Eating Each Other. They Are Overfed. At Night, Alone, I Marry The Bed.

The Place I Live In Is A Kind Of Maze And I Keep Seeking The Exit Or The Home.

Dead Drunk Is The Term I Think Of, Insensible, Neither Cool Nor Warm, Without A Head Or A Foot. To Be Drunk Is To Be Intimate With A Fool.

I Would Like To Think That No One Would Die Anymore If We All Believed In Daisies But The Worms Know Better, Don't They? They Slide Into The Ear Of A Corpse And Listen To His Great Sigh.