The Wolf Is Living For The Earth.

In The Pit Of Red You Hid From The Bone-clinic Whiteness But The Jewel You Lost Was Blue.

With A Sudden Sharp Hot Stink Of Fox, It Enters The Dark Hole Of The Head. The Window Is Starless Still; The Clock Ticks, The Page Is Printed.

Prose, Narratives, Etcetera, Can Carry Healing. Poetry Does It More Intensely.

The Real Mystery Is This Strange Need. Why Can't We Just Hide It And Shut Up? Why Do We Have To Blab? Why Do Human Beings Need To Confess?

He Was His Own Leftover, The Spat-out Scrag. He Was What His Brain Could Make Nothing Of.