The Mind Enters Itself, And God The

Nothing Would Give Up Life: Even The Dirt Keeps Breathing A Small Breath.

I Have Gone Into The Waste Lonely Places

What's Important? That Which Is Dug Out Of Books, Or Out Of The Guts?

My Papa's Waltz: The Whiskey On Your Breath Could Make A Small Boy Dizzy; But I Hung On Like Death: Such Waltzing Was Not Easy. We Romped Until The Pans Slid From The Kitchen Shelf; My Mother's Countenance Could Not Unfrown Itself. The Hand That Held My Wrist Was Battered On One Knuckle; At Every Step You Missed My Right Ear Scraped A Buckle. You Beat Time On My Head With A Palm Caked Hard By Dirt, Then Waltzed Me Off To Bed Still Clinging To Your Shirt.

And I Walked, I Walked Through The Light Air; I Moved With The Morning.