This Is No Dream Just My Oily

I Love The Word Warm. It Is Almost Unbearable-- So Moist And Breathlike.

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

And The Aura Of You Remains, Remains, Remains...

Bless All Useful Objects, The Spoons Made Of Bone, The Mattress I Cook My Dreams Upon, The Typewriter That Is My Church With An Altar Of Keys Always Waiting.

I Was Spread Out Dailyand Examined For Flaws.